And Not Fade Away
by Morgan Stuart
Summary: When Chakotay, Paris, and Kim are stranded on a vicious alien world, Kes risks her sanity and Janeway risks her command to see that rescue eventually arrives.
1. When The Bow Broke In Pieces We Fell

**AND NOT FADE AWAY  
  
By Morgan Stuart _  
  
Disclaimer: This story is not intended to infringe upon the rights of _****_Paramount_****_ or any other Star Trek copyright holders.   
  
Personal Note: The author wishes to thank Kt, Ruth Ann, BEKi, Mickey, Dr. D., M.T.K., and C.F.D.T. Special thanks to Larry, my inspiration in all things, and to Margret, for whom this story was written. Last but not least, thanks to Elizabeth Knauel and the ORION Press family, without whom none of this would be.   
  
This tale was first published by ORION Press as a stand-alone novella in 1997.   
  
Historian's Note: The events in this story take place directly after the events depicted in the third season Star Trek: Voyager episode "Flashback."   
  
_**

* * *

CHAPTER ONE   
  
"When the bow broke in pieces we fell   
we would scream and shout   
almost anything   
but the point is we fell dear"   
-Michael Penn   
  
Ensign Harry Kim jerked awake like a marionette, suddenly taut with one deliberate pull of strings. For several seconds he flailed about in a mental free-fall, without any reference or memory, uncertain of where or when he was regaining consciousness. It was dark and cramped. The stinging bite of singed electrical panels assaulted his eyes and throat.   
  
/Okay, Harry, pull it together now. Where are you? What do you last remember?/   
  
His last memory was of a breakfast in the mess hall. Kes had been there, smiling, perched like a pixie, feet tucked beneath her, keeping Neelix company. It was a ritual for her, that morning stop, before she was due in sickbay. Neelix had left the hushed tones of their intimate discussion to usher Kim and Tom Paris to her table. The Talaxian had fussed over the two officers, personally presenting them with their meal. An "ATB," he called it: Away Team Breakfast. He had promised that he had specially designed it to provide them with energy and stamina for their mission.   
  
Kim remembered trying not to laugh openly while watching Commander Chakotay excuse himself from the questionable gelatinous mixture when he had entered a few minutes later with the captain. She herself had opted for her usual black coffee only. The two senior officers had chosen the table next to Kim, Paris, and Kes for their last meeting of the day. They had exchanged datapadds and quiet words, their characteristic solemnity in stark contrast with the young laughter from the other table. He remembered Kes finally taking leave of their company, a light hand on each of their backs, telling Kim and Paris to take care of themselves and come back safely. Turning back for one last look, she wagged her finger at the lieutenant and reminded her tutor of their next scheduled flight simulation. With a kiss to Neelix she was gone.   
  
That breakfast seemed at once both instantly real and ages past. /Where am I now?/ A soft moan directly to his left broke the unnerving silence, and a familiar voice whispered his name. /Tom! I was in the shuttle with Tom, going down to that planet to investigate. What happened to us? Did we crash?/   
  
The second time Paris spoke Kim's name his voice betrayed panic. "Harry!"   
  
"I... I'm..." Kim's voice sounded terribly fragile to his own ears. His mouth was so dry, filled with the acrid taste of ashes. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm okay, Tom." Everything seemed unreal to Kim, speaking into the blackness, suspended without sense of direction or context. They sat motionless for a moment, still too shocked to speak.   
  
Then it dawned on him. "Commander?"   
  
Silence.   
  
"Chakotay?" Kim could sense Paris turning to face behind them, where their commander had been sitting in the shuttle. "Chakotay?"   
  
A grunt sounded in reply from somewhere behind - or was it above? - the two. They felt him move slowly and awkwardly, trying to regain his own bearings. Then he, too, cleared his throat. "Are you both all right?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"I think so. What happened?" Kim voiced the bewilderment the three shared.   
  
"The last thing I remember, we had cleared the atmosphere and gotten our first sensor readings. I was scanning for possible landing coordinates when -" Paris was interrupted by a violent shudder throughout the shuttle. The officers tried as best they could to brace themselves in the darkness. Kim realized with embarrassment that, in his disorientation, he clung to Tom's arm instead of his seat's. Paris returned the pressure, holding Kim back against his chair protectively.   
  
"What the?" Paris barked at the blackness.   
  
"Someone or something is hitting our hull," Chakotay paused as the shuttle lurched again. "I'm going to try to have a look. Paris, can you tell me anything about where we are or how we crash-landed? Do you know our physical position?"   
  
"Our sensors are dead. It looks like all the systems are. It feels like we're on our nose, but I don't know to what degree. As to where we are, your guess is as good as mine." Kim could imagine Paris shrugging beside him. Another quake. "I think it is safe to say that we're on solid ground, though."   
  
"Agreed. Stay put, but keep alert." Chakotay turned and slid into the back of Kim's chair. Bracing himself, he felt his way up the shuttle's side, half-walking and half-climbing. A fourth, even greater impact slammed him into burned panels and elicited an unrecognizable curse from the Amerindian. Groping his way to the familiar manual controls of the hatch door, he drew his weapon and braced himself.   
  
/This is happening too fast. You've been put on the defensive, with little information and no time to think./ The irony was not lost on Chakotay. /Just like a Maquis./ For the briefest moment, he closed his eyes. /We are on a long journey, so far from home. This is an unknown threat - we have no idea what we are facing. Spirits of my People, I need the strength and the wisdom to lead these men through this crisis and return them safely to Voyager./ He was collected now. He threw his weight against the door, opening the shuttle to the blinding brightness of alien day.

* * *

"I would appreciate it if you would remind them to clear any foodstuffs they bring back on board with me before sentencing them to suffer under Mister Neelix's knife. We do not want another cheese incident."   
  
"Yes, Doctor." Kes had learned to suppress her reactions to the emergency medical hologram and not laugh aloud at his personal quirks. "We aren't sure if they will find anything, though; we can't even be certain it's a Class M planet. Neelix is unfamiliar with it, and the atmospheric conditions completely disable our sensors. That's why they had to use the shuttle instead of beaming down. But if they do find food supplies, I'll be sure to remind them to let you inspect everything."   
  
"Thank you." The Doctor returned to his terminal, the creases in his forehead deepening with concentration.   
  
"What are you working on?" She cocked her head to one side and paused expectantly at the edge of his office table.   
  
"Ensign Amos has been complaining of stress and fatigue. He has been exploring aromatherapy, and receiving some relief of symptoms. I would like to continue experimenting, however, to determine what smells would be most beneficial to him. It is a complex question, rooted in a synthesis of psychological and physical factors. Any analysis must also consider the individual's personal experiences and tastes to determine what scents evoke positive memories and reactions." A satisfied smile. "It is a good thing that I have such thorough programming, capable of handling such nuanced data."   
  
Kes did not balk at his self-congratulation. Her mind followed his with the diligence of a gifted acolyte. "That's fascinating. I know the Ocampa sense of smell is not as developed as Humans'-"   
  
"Which explains your ability to tolerate the mess hall while Mister Neelix is working."   
  
She continued, ignoring the good-humored gibe. She alone secretly knew how kind the Doctor truly was. "But I know how comforting it is for me to be surrounded by plants and flowers, by that smell of life and growth and blooms." Her features grew wistful.   
  
"So, if you were embarking upon aromatherapy, the scents of the hydroponics bay would be where you began."   
  
"Yes, exactly." She nodded enthusiastically. Her smile, as it inevitably did with the Doctor, grew inquisitive. "What would you begin with? Can you smell?"   
  
"My programming includes all five sensory perceptions: taste, sight, touch, sound, and smell." So matter-of-fact.   
  
"Do I hear a 'but' coming?" She sank to her elbows, resting her elfin chin on interlaced fingers.   
  
"No, not at all." He grew self-conscious beneath her wide-eyed scrutiny. "I can identify smells. I simply cannot experience the psychological identification between memory and emotion and scents. That is the function of an autonomous psyche. It is part of the uncertainty of sentient life forms' individual patterns."   
  
Kes straightened, her entire body reflecting the excitement of a new idea. "But your program is adaptive! Would you like to experience a new scent? Something different from this antiseptic sick bay? Wait until you smell the blooms of Livadian Spredendron!"   
  
As she so often did, Kes infected the Doctor with her enthusiasm and curiosity. Another new experience awaited him. His thin-lipped nod, brow arched in interest, was all she needed to send her on her way. Once again he marveled at how his little assistant had altered his world, given him a life to replace a program. A mixture of paternal pride in her accomplishments and wondering gratitude for her influence warred within him. It was a satisfying struggle.

* * *

At first Chakotay could not see. Squinting against the sudden light, he peered down to the surface, searching for the source of the blows to the shuttle. As Paris had surmised, the shuttle now sat almost directly at a ninety degree angle to the ground. It was lodged where it had tipped forward after crash-landing, between two jutting rock formations. They were effectively held vulnerable for whatever beings might inhabit this world.   
  
Paris and Kim twisted uncomfortably to follow Chakotay's progress. He levered himself into the shuttle's opening, a dark silhouette in relief against the brightness. He stiffened as he absorbed the scene before him.   
  
"What is it?" Kim whispered to no one in particular.   
  
"We'll know soon enough," Paris returned. His pale brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in his characteristic look of concern.   
  
"My name is Commander Chakotay. We come in peace." His voice was controlled, unthreatening. He was good in first contact situations, providing the dual messages of peace and power with his quiet, careful words and formidable physical presence. Another voice answered him but Paris and Kim could not decipher the words. "There is no need for hostility. We did not intend to trespass. If we can repair our vessel, we will leave you and not return. No harm will be done." A short pause. "If I may speak to your leader-" He was interrupted by the other voice, this time substantially louder and more belligerent. A moment's pause. He lowered his phaser.   
  
Kim rolled his eyes and groaned.   
  
Paris cursed.   
  
Chakotay did not turn back to his men. Still formal, still loud enough for outside ears, he called to them. "Mister Paris, Mister Kim, would you please join me. Unarmed." It was an order, not an invitation.   
  
Together the two officers began the clumsy ascent to the hatchway. Catching Kim's shoulder, Paris moved in front of him. "Whatever happens, stay behind me, Harry."   
  
Kim caught Paris's eye before he turned completely. "You're not expendable, Tom." Paris recognized his own words from their first disaster aboard Voyager now used against him. They locked gazes for a moment. Gratitude fleetingly crossed Paris's animated features, followed by an unreadable expression Kim could not interpret. Then Paris grinned at his earnest companion and turned back toward the climb ahead.   
  
As they reached Chakotay, he swiveled toward them and extended his hand. Paris reached for it and halted in mid-climb as Chakotay held him firmly in place. He looked at them both, then settled his gaze on the lieutenant. For their ears only he whispered, "I am not giving up. I'm just buying time for us until the odds are better. Sometimes you have to throw a battle to win a war." He glanced at Kim and registered his nod, then returned his intense gaze to Paris. He knew that Paris had problems with his leadership. His authority always felt tenuous with the lieutenant, because it was. Even when the younger man's disobedience and insubordination had been a ruse to lay a trap for the traitor on board, it had not obscured the larger issue for Chakotay. Paris had acted against his first officer because it was believable; his old feelings for Chakotay were common knowledge. His apology afterward did not ease Chakotay's conviction that the same behavior toward Janeway would have instantly caused suspicion. The clever plan had sacrificed Paris's safety to catch the Kazon spy. It had also sacrificed Chakotay's credibility. The most frustrating twist of the dilemma was that Chakotay respected Paris's talented, reckless bravery. He was alive because of it. Whether Paris returned that respect, he could not know. Too many walls, built by them both, stood between them.   
  
In any case, the former Maquis could not afford to allow their personal relationship and past history to jeopardize their current situation. If Paris knew that Chakotay had not surrendered, he would probably follow his lead. That was all Chakotay asked at this point. If all went well, they would have many days back on Voyager to resolve their unsettled issues. He seemed to communicate this uncertainty and urgency to Paris. The blond searched his commander's eyes and then dropped his own passively, reflecting his acquiescence.   
  
With that Chakotay hauled Paris and Kim to the lip of the shuttle where they viewed the planet's surface and inhabitants for the first time. Following Chakotay they lowered themselves to the ground. A ring of over thirty heavily armed beings encircled them, all astride beasts reminiscent of small Terran buffalo. Each appeared almost Humanlike, although more pale and broad-bodied than the average Human. One urged his mount a few steps within the ring and addressed the three officers.   
  
"I am Nett Renoja, chief overseer of the fief of Llilegrough. You are not Phrama."   
  
"We are Human." Paris offered. "If we could just -"   
  
"You will be taken to Llilegrough. Save your words for him. He will decide your fate." He made several hand gestures and a few of the other Phrama dismounted and produced thick bristled cord from their saddlebags.   
  
"There is no need for restraints." Chakotay was gentle but persistent. "We are but three strong, no match for -"   
  
"Silence!" Renoja bellowed. "Speak no more to me." He glowered fiercely at Chakotay, as if the commander's speech were a vile insult to him. "No more."   
  
The officers exchanged glances and stood silently as the Phrama approached them. Two of them tied Kim's hands in front of him, and he hissed with discomfort as he tried to shift his wrists against the tightly-drawn abrasive rope. Measuring a few feet of the cord, they likewise secured Paris's hands. Another Phrama moved to Chakotay and pulled his arms behind his back and tied his hands, leaving him defenseless. Chakotay fixed his unblinking eyes on Renoja, who grew unnerved beneath the commander's calm gaze. The overseer gestured vehemently and the Phrama who had tied Kim and Paris measured out another segment of their rope. They fashioned a noose from its end.   
  
Still mounted, Renoja turned his sneering countenance to Paris and Kim. "Your leader will be tied to my wallibeve. If you care for his life you will follow. If you should falter or stumble, you will either strangle him or break his neck." The Phrama's broad smile seemed strangely mated with such chilling words.   
  
On cue, the others moved to Chakotay. He did not resist as they pulled the coarse noose over his head. As one Phrama tightened it over the officer's bare flesh, he twisted it back and forth. Blood visibly welled up around the rope as it tore at his neck and splintered. Renoja chuckled at this subtle show of force. At his side, Paris and Kim held their breath in silent empathy with Chakotay. He himself only winced. The straining fists clenched behind him, however, betrayed his pain and anger to his officers. Another rope was fastened around his waist and tied to Renoja's saddle.   
  
Without another word their forced march began.

* * *

"And, last but not least, the replicator ration usage?" Captain Kathryn Janeway stifled a yawn as she accepted the padd. Her eyes skimmed the data even as her mind wandered. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. If it had, Tuvok would already have told her anyway. Still glancing at the figures, she reached for her coffee. Her fingers played along the rim of her mug, growing moist and warm from steam. Neelix had named this dark, slightly bitter brew for Tom Paris to commemorate his transwarp flight. The popularity of the signature flavor had outlived the viability of the technological breakthrough it honored. It was not sweet vanilla cappuccino, but Janeway found it pleasant and, by now, comfortingly familiar. "How is that new orchid?"   
  
Tuvok lifted an eyebrow at her change in topic. "It still appears frail, but I believe it will survive." A terse, efficient answer from a terse, efficient man.   
  
"And Kes?"   
  
A pause. "I do not know if she has an opinion regarding my orchid's survival."   
  
She laughed. Handing the padd back to him, she cupped the mug in both hands and curled herself around its pleasant presence. "Tuvok, my friend, when will you ever admit to having a sense of humor?"   
  
He knew her well enough to know she expected no response. She continued. "I meant, are you still tutoring her in the use of her mental abilities?"   
  
"Yes. She is an eager student. She is exhibiting a good deal more patience and self-control than before. This is a long process, but I believe it will be beneficial both to Kes and to Voyager."   
  
"No doubt, Tuvok. I am glad for her. She has so much potential. I know she appreciates your guidance." She smiled fondly thinking of the delicate Ocampa. Her affection for Kes was tempered with an immense respect, knowing that one day she would grow beyond them all into an adulthood with limitless possibilities. Even knowing that her gifts far outweighed any Human's, it was still difficult not to think of her as a girl, even a daughter. /The difference is, no daughter of mine could control subatomic particles with a mere thought./ Her memories flashed back to an alien world and her own alien body, hyper-evolved when she crossed the threshold of warp speed. A suppressed curiosity about the offspring Lieutenant Paris and she had produced once again resurfaced, and not without a characteristic infusion of humor. /Not any daughter that I know of, anyway./   
  
"I am gratified to serve as her teacher. It is a most worthwhile experience." He rose. "If that is all, I believe that I am due in the mess hall for lunch. Mister Neelix has created a new recipe for yet another Vulcan dish and has requested that I sample it." With her nod he turned toward the door. He paused at the archway. "Of course, if there is any other business to which I can attend, Mister Neelix will have to serve lunch without me."   
  
Janeway laughed again and shooed him from the room.

* * *

Although they had not been walking for more than an hour, the three Starfleet officers were exhausted. With each step they were aware that Chakotay's life was in peril and that one stumble could easily end it. Chakotay fared worst of all. With his hands bound behind him he could not maintain a sense of equilibrium, much less wipe the sweat that ran into his eyes and blinded him. The heat of this world seemed not to affect the Phrama, but the three Humans suffered. And the sun had not yet risen to its midday peak.   
  
Chakotay tried to embrace an inner peace as the ropes pulled him in different directions. /I must be prepared for what will occur when we met this Llilegrough./ He could not banish his worries, however. /What will become of the shuttle while we're gone?/ At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that their technology was at present nonfunctional. But the Phrama could still learn a great deal from dismantling the craft despite its damage. /And the phasers!/ Just the few on board were enough to alter the balance of power here. At least he had not mentioned that they were from other worlds, or from Starfleet. Any gesture toward the Prime Directive was better than none at all. Anyway, his options had been quite limited. Maquis pragmatism chastised him. /You do what you can do./   
  
As they crested a grassy hill, Renoja reined in his wallibeve and paused to rest. "Water your mounts!" Without waiting for permission the three men sank to their knees.   
  
"Are you okay?" Chakotay panted to his men. Kim nodded wearily.   
  
"We'll live. You've looked better." Paris nodded toward the commander's blood-slicked neck. Chakotay accepted the nonchalant comment as the veiled inquiry that it was. Paris knew that each movement of his caused Chakotay further pain. He had spent the last hour trying to hold his hands still and keep up with Renoja's pace. Chakotay understood. His mouth twitched with the echo of a harsh smile.   
  
"It only hurts when I laugh."   
  
Paris had to chuckle.   
  
"Silence!" Renoja, dismounted now, turned from his wallibeve to glower at them.   
  
From the tail of the group emerged a slight Phrama bearing a leathery waterbag. He drank from it and, without a word, offered it to Kim. The ensign eyed it warily, then reached out and took it in his bound hands. He swallowed deeply, gratefully. Murmuring his thanks to the compassionate man he handed it to Paris, who likewise drank thirstily. Paris turned to Chakotay. He lifted the bag so the Native American could drink.   
  
Before he could press eager lips to the spout, Renoja was there. He jerked the waterbag from Paris, nearly pulling the lieutenant over with his force. "None for this one!" He tossed the bag to its owner and returned to watering his mount.   
  
Chakotay licked dry lips and turned his face away from his officers' expressions of concern. /I can endure this. He will not break me. And I won't let him provoke me into a confrontation on his terms./ He closed his eyes and calmed himself. When the moments of rest passed and Renoja called them to march, though, he thankfully accepted two pairs of bound hands as they gently grasped his forearms and helped him to his feet. In silence, they began again.

* * *

Pulling her floor-length cloak tightly around her shoulders, Janeway quick-stepped down the corridor from her quarters. Regardless of how accepted holosuite use was, she always felt self-conscious, even guilty, taking time for herself. With the Away Team gone to the planet for four days and Voyager peacefully in orbit, she had felt satisfied that she could spare an hour of her evening to begin a new holonovel. After reading the last report of the day it had seemed like a good idea. Now, scurrying toward the suite, peering furtively from beneath her crisp bonnet, she had second thoughts.   
  
Once she stepped into the holodeck, though, she was glad she had come. She stood in a square hall, flanked by walls that ascended into shadows. A maid-servant stepped forward and bobbed a slight curtsey. Smiling from beneath the sandy ringlets that escaped her lace cap, she spoke. "Will you walk this way, ma'am?" Janeway nodded, returning her smile, and followed the youth through a tall oak door into a small room doubly illuminated by fire and candlelight.   
  
An elderly woman dressed in black silk and a widow's cap looked up from her knitting. In a matronly English accent she welcomed Janeway, who clasped the chilled hand and knelt to stroke the plump cat at her feet. It responded with a disdainful burnt-orange glare. /Even the holograms can tell I'm a dog person./ "How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; John drives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire."   
  
Allowing herself to be led to a chair by the hearth, Janeway cleared her throat and recited the first line she had prepared for this long-awaited adventure. "Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?" The fire crackled invitingly. It had been so long since she had watched as logs glowed and settled and burst with sparks. So long. /Mark -/   
  
"Yes, you are right; do sit down."   
  
She refocused her attention on the scene at hand. The next few minutes flew by for Janeway, quite as she had expected. When it came time for her character to retire for the night, she could not bear to tear herself away from the holonovel. She ordered the computer to fast-forward the program to the next day. Removing her cloak and bonnet, she stepped outside to walk the grounds of Thornfield in the morning light. She could smell the dew on the grass. For a moment she thought jealously of Chakotay, Paris and Kim. /How I'd love to be planetside right now, my feet on solid ground./ She met Mrs. Fairfax again as the housekeeper fussed over morning tea and they spoke. Soon, as Janeway had imagined, the first highlight of the program appeared.   
  
Skipping merrily toward the two women, blonde curls dancing around her slender shoulders, the petite child hopped to a halt at Janeway's knee. "C'est la gouvernante?"   
  
The nurse that jogged to keep up with her diminutive charge smiled at Janeway before breathlessly answering. "Mais oui, certainement."   
  
With a frown of concentration, the child composed her query in English. "Mademoiselle - what is your name?"   
  
They were the words she had been waiting to say to make this escape solid and real. The fingers that grasped her skirts as she walked now clenched them in anticipation. It was so cathartic, so rewarding to lose one's self in cherished stories. Drawing a deep breath, she knelt to the girl's level and gave herself a name she had loved since she was sixteen. At the time it had seemed the perfect antidote to intense hours in the chemistry lab. Now its syllables relieved the tension of command.   
  
"Eyre - Jane Eyre."   
  
She lost track of the hours that night.   
  
[The holonovel is based on Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, first published in 1847.]

* * *

Tom Paris was a student of human nature. Not that he wanted to be. His experiences with Starfleet, with the Maquis, with his trial, with the penal colony, all had offered him unforgettable lessons, a parade of personalities he had learned to avoid at all costs. He knew the sneer of the sadist, intrigued with the distraction of toying with a helpless victim. And if you tried to show him that you were not helpless, that you would resist, you enticed him all the more. The Phrama were a new species to Paris, but he knew Nett Renoja's type all too well.   
  
There was a strength that came with knowledge, however. Paris could be scared but he could not be surprised. He felt, justifiably, that he had seen it all. That could come in handy, even provide the upper hand if the situation were right. He had contemplated this as he had marched, staring ahead at Chakotay's battered neck and observing as Renoja grew increasingly unsettled by the commander's characteristic stoicism. He observed and he remembered.   
  
They had been walking for hours. Chakotay, still without water, was stumbling now. As they entered Llilegrough's domain with its vast fields of crops and approached the first, most imposing structure of the inner compound, Renoja halted and dismounted. Turning to his force, he addressed them. "I shall inform Llilegrough of what we found. You may resume your posts." The Phrama that had tied the officers together came forward to assist Renoja with them. "Follow me. I shall secure them myself. Come, Human."   
  
Renoja unlaced the rope from his saddle and jerked it viciously, almost pulling Chakotay off of his feet. The building was surrounded by a series of metal bars that connected legs standing about eight feet tall: large hitching posts. He led the officers to the nearest one. The Phrama, with Renoja, secured the bound wrists of Kim and Paris above their heads, high enough that they swayed on the balls of their feet precariously. With a satisfied smile Renoja tied the noose-rope to the pole as well, leaving Chakotay to stand on his toes and strain his neck backwards in order to breathe.   
  
"Leave them now." With that final word the remaining Phrama scattered and Renoja strode toward his master's dwelling.   
  
Chakotay squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the dizziness caused by his unnatural position. He had to stay balanced, stay motionless, or he would suffocate himself. The intense heat and dehydration weakened him. The rope ground into the open wounds in his neck. Renoja had broken his concentration. He had been far from here, in a wood, an unseen stream clothed in foliage gurgling in the distance. He had knelt there in the clearing, silently waiting for his spirit guide to reveal itself. The pungent scent of life had surrounded him. The clear, cool water of the creek had slaked his thirst. There, in the wood, he could assess the situation, seek guidance, and plan. The meditation he had maintained for these last hours was no more. But it had bought him time and provided him strength. He was stronger than he appeared, twisting here in vulnerable balance, bloodied and trembling.   
  
When Phrama emerged from the building almost an hour later, they were not the ones responsible for discovering the officers. Wrapped in flowing toga-like robes as green as the fields around them, a dozen Phrama strode determinedly toward them. One, in the center, appeared to be older, regal. He spoke before he reached the three.   
  
"Which of you is leader?" The tone of authority.   
  
With effort Chakotay strained to swallow, then answered in a harsh whisper that carried by sheer force of will from his cracked lips. "I am... Commander... Chakotay."   
  
"Cut him down! His men, as well." As the Phrama followed his orders, he bowed slightly, formally. "I must apologize for the behavior of my overseer. You have been ill-used. Please understand, he is devoted to my fief's security." Chakotay inclined his head, jaw clenched, planted solidly before the overlord. He did not speak. "Let us remove to my hall. Unbind them!" Llilegrough turned back toward the building.   
  
Their hands freed, Kim and Paris moved to Chakotay to help him disentangle the bloody noose without causing further damage. He finally dropped his hands and let Kim ease it gently open and remove it. The two men instinctively flanked their commander as the Phrama encircled them and followed Llilegrough. "You gonna make it?" Paris whispered into his ear. He nodded tightly. All three of them were.

* * *

Llilegrough was not an irrational man. He was a petty overlord with fewer resources and means than many of the neighboring fiefholders, and the delicate mixture of pragmatism and imagination that allowed him to maintain his precarious position and defend himself. Lesser Phrama would have surrendered this delicate existence in favor of security or been absorbed by the hostile forces of ambitious neighbors. Not Llilegrough. Now his attention was turned to the problem at hand. The strange craft had crashed on his property. He lacked the manpower and leisure to dissect it and learn its technologies, however, although he knew they might well prove useful. Before he had mastered its mysteries his greedy rivals would know of his secret and try to take it by force. Unfortunately, and he did regret it, the only thing to do was quickly dismantle and bury the strange spacecraft. If he could not use the technology, no one would. The entire incident would be denied. The cover-up would be in place by nightfall. None of Llilegrough's men would mention again the foreign vessel from the sky.   
  
This decision left the problem of the survivors, the Humans. He pondered this dilemma as he watched them take their seats on a wooden bench in his interview chamber. They were exhausted and hot. Each of them appeared alert nonetheless, assessing their new surroundings, taking in information about the Phrama and Llilegrough in particular. They were intelligent and wary, these men. The young one on the end seemed to catalogue in his mind the details of the room. Young, but clever. A thinker, a planner. The tall, fair one eyed the guards and their weapons. The way he held himself, both consciously and naturally, revealed a distrustful man, a defiant man, a man of action. Admiration instinctively warmed the overlord as he watched the Human leader, the dark one, the focus of a Renoja's anger, take slow, disciplined sips of the water he was offered. His body must have desperately fought to gulp liters of the precious liquid, but he controlled himself. A man of pride. A man used to sacrifice. A complex man who knew much and would reveal nothing. Llilegrough learned a great deal from simple observations. If the situation were different, if he had more options at his disposal, he would have liked to have learned from these men. Perhaps even call them allies. But that was impossible.   
  
Chakotay's appeal to Llilegrough, when it came, was eloquent and concise. It was also irrelevant. The overlord had already made his decision.

* * *

"So then he says, 'Sandrine's, for example.' So casually. Sandrine's!" B'Elanna Torres shook her head in amusement and rolled her eyes as she took another bite of her pasta. Kes laughed merrily just thinking about the pub and its irrepressible owner. The combination pool critic, bartender, madam, and philosopher had far too much personality for one holodeck character's own good.   
  
"Poor Doctor. When he's there she won't leave him alone and it drives him crazy. But when he hasn't gone for a while, he gets to thinking about her -"   
  
"Because she drives him crazy." Torres finished Kes's sentence. "It's all too funny. I told him tonight would be fine. Tom's gone, so he won't be using the program, and he never minds if anyone else does. We've all kind of adopted it."   
  
Kes nodded thoughtfully, remembering her own surprise birthday party at the holographic pool hall. Struck by a thought, she gasped, "Do you think he'll wear the beret?" The mental image sent them both into another cycle of laughter.   
  
"Well, it appears that we are having a good evening." Complete with apron and chef's hat, a smiling Neelix pulled up a chair next to Kes.   
  
"Oh, Neelix, we were just talking about the Doctor. He wants to have access to the holodeck like the rest of the crew, not just when we invite him for special occasions. I am excited for him. He is trying so many new things, and his program is adapting with every experience."   
  
Neelix characteristically turned the tide of conversation. "Speaking of experiences, how do you like the dish du jour, Ms. Torres? Is there enough karpel fungi in the sauce -"   
  
/You promised yourself you'd never let him tell you what you were eating again. You're better off not knowing. Karpel fungi?/ Her stomach turned. "Really, Neelix, this is quite good. Before you told me that part about the fungi, I thought it was one of your best."   
  
He was immensely pleased. "Really? Do you think so? I am quite gratified to hear it, I truly am. You see, I faced a rather disappointing setback with my Vulcan dish at lunch, and frankly I have been in need of some honest affirmation. Thank you! I think I will have to take an informal poll about this now." And Neelix was going table to table before Torres could register his animated words. Kes watched him, smiling fondly, then turned back to Torres, now idly considering her datapadd.   
  
"B'Elanna? Could I ask you a favor, with regard to the Doctor?"   
  
"Sure, Kes. What is it?"   
  
"Could we add some scents to Sandrine's? Cigar smoke? Wood polish?" Her mind raced. /How would Sandrine's smell?/ "Perfume, perhaps?" She chewed on her lip thoughtfully.   
  
Torres could not help but be intrigued by the Ocampa's request. "I don't see why not. But why?"   
  
"We have been experimenting with his program to see if he can make links between smells and experiences or feelings."   
  
"Great idea. But he'll be going soon. We'll have to hurry to get them installed before he uses it." Neelix was bewildered to find them gone when he returned with the voting spread. He needed more affirmation. The morale officer was feeling low. According to his survey, 'none of the above' was overwhelmingly the favorite dish he prepared. He sighed. /Does every civilized Alpha Quadrant culture condone the abuse of cooks?/

* * *

"For workload purposes, you three will be counted as a kin group. If your group does not fill its quota each day, one of you will be punished. That shall be your dwelling." Renoja pointed to one of the dilapidated wooden shacks on the periphery of the makeshift village. "All you require for survival is there. Tomorrow you shall assume your duties. I will personally supervise your progress." He nudged his wallibeve into a slow turn, remarking, "Report to this common at sunrise." He left them amid the huts.   
  
"A forced labor camp, and Mister Congeniality here is our own personal slavedriver? This makes me pine for the penal colony." Kim responded to Paris's comment with a nervous chuckle, and Chakotay tugged on his ear absently as he surveyed the structures around them. After a moment's silent contemplation, he spoke.   
  
"Let's get to the cabin, where we can talk." The three made their way to the structure Renoja had indicated. The crudely-constructed shack would barely shield them from the elements. Mismatched wooden planks left gaping cracks on all sides. An open hole in the center of the roof had been cut to allow the smoke from the fire pit in the center of the dirt floor to escape. Simple wooden bowls, metal pots, and dusty blankets littered the ground. A few torn pieces of clothing hung on a wall. Chakotay sighed as he drank in the disheartening scene, rubbing his chin distractedly.   
  
Abruptly, he sat down crossed-legged on the floor, a brief concession to his body's needs, and looked to his men. "We need to buy time until we know the best way to escape back to the crash site. Then we can either repair the shuttle and leave by ourselves, or we can await the rescue party - that will be the first place they search. Paris, it looked like the stream that ran through this village is the workers' source of water. Get us a few bowls." The lieutenant nodded, collected the vessels, and went on his way.   
  
"I don't get it. Llilegrough seemed regretful about sentencing us to this camp. Why would he sic that Renoja on us if he didn't want us hurt?" Kim opened a sack of provisions, some kind of course meal, and scowled in distaste.   
  
"I don't think he knew Renoja would follow us here and pull rank on the guard. You are right, Llilegrough didn't seem to want to hurt us. He even apologized for how Renoja treated us when he brought us here. Unless I'm wrong, he doesn't know what is going on."   
  
"If we could somehow let him know that Renoja was waiting for us when we came out, and that he has appointed himself our overseer without Llilegrough knowing, maybe we could get Renoja in trouble and get us a little breathing room." Kim frowned in concentration. "But how?"   
  
Paris reentered and offered each of them a bowl of water, from which they drank silently. Chakotay shook his head. "We would have to learn enough of the politics around here to know who we could trust and who had access to Llilegrough. That might take a while. If we can just get through the next day or so and keep our eyes open, I hope we can get out of here altogether."   
  
"There's a plan. No offense to you guys, but I always imagined playing house with someone more... feminine."   
  
"Don't worry, Paris. I wouldn't take you home to Mother, either." Chakotay smiled in spite of himself at his own rejoinder. Then he slowly climbed to his feet, stretched strained muscles, and moved to observe the clothing on the wall. "We'll need to make note of all of the routines. How many guards there are, where we work, the hours we keep, when we're most closely watched." He fingered a tattered shirt. "We haven't seen any of the laborers yet. I think these clothes would fit Phrama, though. It seems that these people might enslave their own kind."   
  
"Enemies of Llilegrough, like dissidents, maybe? Political prisoners?" Kim offered.   
  
Paris shook one of the blankets from the floor, and grimaced as a cloud of dust rose from its filthy fibers. "And Federation officers. All one happy family here, smack dab in the middle of the Phrama gulag. I can see it now. 'A Day in the Life of Thomas Eugenovich.'"

* * *

The Phrama did enslave their own kind. But not because the unfortunate prisoners were politically dangerous or economically unsuccessful. The overlords bred their laborers, and inherited their caste like the land that they cultivated. Those who worked in the labor camps had never known any other way of life. This did not mean that they were utterly content with their existence, but it did mean that they envisioned few options for themselves. The resignation, the silence, the unimaginative bleakness of these prisoners both frightened and repulsed Harry Kim.   
  
Like Paris and Chakotay, Kim stole glances whenever he could as he worked the endless rows of crops. Renoja was never far away. The laborers at first seemed amazed and concerned that the high overseer was paying so much attention to their routine duties. In a way, the Federation officers were fortunate that Renoja was obsessed with their subjugation. His desire to keep them all in view meant that they were assigned to tasks together. Each could always see the other two. There was a small comfort in that.   
  
Kim was down to his undershirt now, the long-sleeved portion of his uniform hanging from his waist, its long black arms flapping as he knelt and stood, knelt and stood. The temperature changes made him constantly miserable. In the sweltering heat of yesterday afternoon, the Humans could not imagine ever needing to build a fire in their meager shelter. By sundown they had kindled one in the fire pit. By midnight they had wrapped the filthy shirts around their shoulders and covered themselves with the dusty blankets. Each had taken turns keeping watch as the other two reclined by the fire, but no one could sleep well. The rising sun only renewed the cycle of extreme heat and cold.   
  
The inefficiency of this mindless toil infuriated Kim further. His hands ached and bled where the hidden thorns of the tall plants caught his flesh. Harvesting the half-budded flowers and the oily sap-like fluid from each stalk seemed needlessly laborious to the ensign. As he fumbled and fought for some kind of rhythm, he remembered Renoja's warning that each worker must meet a quota of harvest for the day, or one member of his group would be punished. How could he learn this in a day, and yet be held as responsible as the Phrama who had labored like this since childhood? He slowed his work for a moment and stretched his throbbing back. Turning, Kim looked at the prisoner directly next to him. Guilt shot through him. /She is so old, and bent over with work. If she can do this, so can I./   
  
He attacked the stalks with renewed determination, keeping one eye on the elderly woman beside him in shame for his own weakness. Only after watching for several minutes did he notice what was happening. As the Phrama around him debudded their plants, they each tossed a bud into the old woman's bin at regular intervals. The rhythm of this choreographed throw was like music; no two workers tossed a bud at the same time, and none looked to locate her pile before they threw. The men and women acted in perfect concert with each other, performing this defiant drumbeat so expertly that no overseer, not even Renoja himself, could detect their actions. A knot formed in Kim's throat. Witnessing the workers helping one of their own offered him a real burst of hope, as well as a new respect for these seemingly complacent slaves.   
  
For what felt like hours he labored silently. He grew to work to the rhythm of the buds as they softly hit the old woman's bin. When he had finally summoned the courage to interact with these wary aliens, he took a short step away from his stalk and tossed a bud of his own into her pile. In a lightning-quick reaction, the ancient face turned towards him and smiled. Then the scene, with its ever-present Renoja on his mount, the cadence of the buds tossed to the bin, the desperate heat and thirst, the silent and absorbed laborers, fell back into place as if he had never done anything at all.

* * *

It was terribly tempting to Chakotay to revisit the glade within himself and not return to the scorched fields where his body baked and thirsted. But the nearness of Paris and Kim - his crew, his responsibility - jarred him into constant surveillance and planning. He mapped in his mind the route they had taken from the shuttlecraft to the compound, and from the compound to the cabin and fields. They would need mounts to travel. The Phrama would certainly have wallibeves to follow them. They also had to find some way to prevent Llilegrough's men from learning of their flight immediately. And alternative plans, contingent upon what they found - or failed to find - when they reached the crash site. Kneel, stand. Kneel, stand. /Endure this. We will be gone from here soon./   
  
Further down the same row, Paris had only one thing on his mind: Nett Renoja. His own restless minutes of sleep the night before held images of other guards, other prisons. He knew that the biggest threat to them this day was Renoja. And Paris knew he was the one most capable of understanding it.   
  
It came as no surprise to him, then, when Renoja announced at the end of the day that the workers must labor longer. His excuse - something about a forthcoming inspection by Llilegrough himself - was merely a means to an end. Paris could tell from the way Renoja watched them that he wanted to make an example of them. To flex his muscles of authority. To punish them from landing on his territory. To satiate his hungering ego. The light was soon too dim to illuminate their work, despite the torches that burned at the end of every other row. Renoja bellowed at the workers' insolence, their disobedience, their sloth. But they could not pick the buds or tap the resin in the darkness. Renoja would have his vengeance. He would give them an example of his wrath that they could watch and remember. He fumed and screamed and shouted. Then he looked down the rows of workers. Kim. Paris. /Chakotay./   
  
Paris could feel the older man straighten slowly a few yards behind him. He knew Chakotay knew. He also knew Chakotay would surrender himself to this torturer without a struggle. But Paris had made his own decision, back before they had been sentenced to this camp. He had made a choice as he watched Renoja sneer at them as they were bound. Renoja was a predator. If not Chakotay, then Kim. Paris would not have it. He knew what to do. It was easy. When Renoja dug his heels into his wallibeve and urged it down their row, Paris did nothing. He simply stood in the overseer's way and failed to step aside. He looked at the Phrama's face as the torchlight played upon it, as it twisted in a new, immediate anger. /I know you, Renoja. Different names, same monster. This time I won't let you break me, or hurt anyone else. You're an old enemy, but I'm a new Tom Paris./   
  
Urgent, hushed words behind him. Chakotay was trying to stop him. Ordering him to step aside. It was too late. A cry to his right, a row over. /Harry, my dear friend. Better me than you./ He smiled, actually smiled, at the enraged overseer then, sealing his fate. Guards appeared behind Renoja and took Paris away. He would not be killed; instead, he would serve as a living reminder to the slaves of Renoja's power. When the punishment was complete he would be returned. The cryptic foreshadowing was the only explanation the workers received. Paris looked back only once. One of Chakotay's dark, muscled arms encircled a frantic Harry Kim. Whether he was restraining or comforting the ensign, Paris could not tell.

* * *

The edge of Llilegrough's fief, the very boundary of his lands, was dotted with small metal cubes. The Federation officers had noted them in the distance and assumed they were territorial markers. The officers could not have known that they were also punishment devices. Solitary cubes, they were called. With only a thin patchwork of ventilation holes in the top, the boxlike cells grew chillingly cold at night and searingly hot in the daytime. Victims sat doubled-over on themselves, unable to move at all, either to create friction and stay warm or to shrink away from the burning metal sides when the sun blazed down upon them. Immobility and temperature extremes together made these cubes effective devices of torture, both physically and psychologically. Tom Paris soon discovered how effective they were.   
  
After the first full day, as night fell on Llilegrough's lands, guards opened the cube and lifted Paris bodily onto the grass. He collapsed at Renoja's feet, unable to will strength into his trembling limbs. No one spoke. A leering Renoja produced a needle from the folds of his robe and nodded to his men, who spread Paris across the ground and held his arms and legs. The lieutenant had no strength with which to fight. His only weapon was defiance. He narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin challengingly. He had suffered a day with only this moment to anticipate. His stubbornness had kept him sane. /I won't let you break me, I won't, I won't, I-/   
  
But when the syringe plunged into the side of his neck, his body exploded in an agony unlike anything he had ever felt before. In the distance, he could hear his own fragile scream. He twisted vainly in the strong arms that held him, gasping and sobbing for breaths that burned like flame. His mind danced on the edge of consciousness, his vision exploding into brilliant kaleidoscopes with every strained beat of his heart. Even as he writhed and struggled, the guards rolled him into a sitting position and dragged him again towards the cube.   
  
He tried to speak, to ask them what was happening, what they had just done to him, to warn them that he could not breathe, that he would die if they put him back in that horrific box. He could not find or keep the breath for voice. Disjointed whimpers, staccato sobs. /No, no, I don't want to die like this! It hurts, I'm suffocating, it's tearing me apart! Please, please, don't let it end like this, not another failure! No! At least let me fight, don't let me go so easily -/ When the lid of the box closed above him, he scratched and clawed at it with feeble hands. Tears burned in his eyes.   
  
The cold wind obscured the sounds that emanated from that tiny metal cube.

* * *

Somewhere miles above the planet on Voyager, a sleeping Kes clutched twisted sheets in trembling fists and screamed.

* * *

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"   
  
Chakotay gasped with the shock of words after so many hours spent in silence. He had offered to take first watch in the meager cabin and let Kim sleep. Sitting before the fire, staring into its mesmerizing depths, he had not moved for half the night. When the blankets around his shoulders fell to the dirt floor, he did not notice. He had not realized Kim was awake - if, in fact, Kim had ever slept at all. He did not meet Kim's eyes. He merely nodded.   
  
"It isn't your fault."   
  
He jerked as if he had been hit and stared at Kim. From the looks of the young man, he too had passed the night sleeplessly. "What do you mean?"   
  
"Tom did what he did for both of us. You were willing to do the same thing for him and for me." Silence spread between them. "I'm sorry if I am out of line. It's just... I thought that you... "   
  
"I know what you're trying to do, Ensign, and I appreciate it. Now get some rest." The formality of Chakotay's tone widened the uneasy space between them. He stoked the fire and gathered the blankets back around himself. His expression remained unchanged.   
  
/Well, that was no use./ Kim had wondered whether or not to reach out toward the commander. Now he wished he had stayed silent. Chakotay remained a bit of a mystery to Kim. The commander often seemed quite sensitive to the feelings of his crew, yet at times incredibly private and secretive, even uncomfortable, about his own. It seemed that he was there for his officers, but would not allow them to offer reciprocal concern. Kim felt awkward and alone, trying to quiet his own fear and yet dispel the anger and self-recrimination he read through Chakotay's veiled features. He burrowed against the hard ground, seeking a comfortable position.   
  
He thought again of Paris. /What are they doing to him? When will they bring him back? How will we escape?/ Questions ran together in his mind and exhaustion mercifully overcame him.

* * *

"This is day four. Voyager will be expecting us within the next few hours." Kim stirred the pasty concoction without further comment. He knew better than to ask when Chakotay thought Paris would be returned. Neither of them had an idea. The two worked and rested in a hyperaware state, outwardly obedient to the guards and inwardly frantic for a sign of their comrade.   
  
Chakotay had tried to funnel this fear into productive pursuits: gathering and sharing information, planning, even cleaning the hut and clothes. They learned more about the Phrama, their political divisions, their religious beliefs, and the agricultural system that fueled them both. He knew that they would have to act quickly when Paris rejoined them. A search party would be coming soon. So many variables rested on the lieutenant's condition, though. So many unanswered questions. They waited.   
  
As Chakotay drifted off to sleep next to the fire later that night, Kim, taking the first watch, heard the plodding of hoof beats and the murmur of activity. Shouts. The faint glow of torches shone through the cracks in the cabin walls. "Commander!"   
  
In a reflex borne of long necessity, Chakotay came instantly awake and rolled into a defensive crouch. They reached for threadbare Phrama jackets and headed out toward the disturbance. A ring of workers had formed in the village common. Mounted guards formed the innermost ring. The same thought occurred to both officers immediately, and they took off at a run to elbow their way into the heart of the gathering.   
  
Paris was hunched on the ground, arms hugging his chest and knees drawn in a fetal position. He rocked back and forth, shivering violently, his eyes open and intense but unseeing, as if he were concentrating with all of his waning strength on something distant within himself. His torturers had stripped him to the waist and taken his boots, Chakotay noted, probably to intensify his exposure. He now wore his socks on his hands. Bruises made his chest and stomach a solid mass of blue-black flesh; the guards had systematically brutalized him after he was too weak to protect himself. There were burns as well. The dust and filth of his imprisonment covered him. Shouldering past the stunned Kim, who was already removing his own coat to cover his friend, Chakotay knelt before Paris and carefully grasped his bare shoulders.   
  
"Paris." The lieutenant flinched away from his touch, shuddering uncontrollably. Chakotay took a deep, calming breath. "Paris. It's Chakotay." Dark brown eyes searched pale blue ones and found only the faintest promise of recognition. He leaned closer, grimly registering the harsh, ragged breaths Paris struggled to take. "It's Chakotay," he repeated softly, studying Paris's face.   
  
/Chakotay./ It was terribly difficult, trying to remember. He'd built so many walls in these recent hours and expended so much energy on maintaining them. But this hushed voice and these eyes, meeting and questioning his own, touched the terrorized senses that had screamed and hidden and finally slumbered. Somewhere, beyond thought, Paris reacted to the gentle words. No friendship. No comfort. But he did find a grudging, honest emotion. Respect. /Chakotay. I trust Chakotay. This can be over now./   
  
Paris surrendered himself to arms he somehow knew would cause him no pain or shame. He pitched forward. As Paris lost consciousness, Chakotay caught him, disentangled arms and legs, and gathered the lieutenant to himself.   
  
Kneeling beside Chakotay, Kim wrapped his ragged jacket around Paris's trembling frame, then grasped Chakotay's elbows and steadied him as he rose to his feet. The older officer nodded his thanks. "Watch my back."   
  
Falling into step behind his commander, Kim warily eyed the mixed crowd of slaves and captors, guarded against anyone who might move against Chakotay or his vulnerable burden. The desperate sound of Paris's labored breathing was all that broke the silence. The onlookers parted and let them retreat in the darkness to their cabin.

* * *

Kim threw open the cabin door, rushing to pile several threadbare blankets onto the dirt floor beside the fire. Turning back to Chakotay as he entered, he accepted part of Paris's weight and the two slowly sank to their knees, lowering Paris gently to the ground. Kim continued to murmur soothing words like a mantra as if begging the lieutenant to respond. Chakotay could tell he was horrified at Paris's condition and dangerously close to shock himself.   
  
"We need more water, more wood, and more blankets. I don't care how you get them."   
  
Kim nodded eagerly, grateful to have something constructive to do to help. He wrapped his sleeping blanket across his shoulders like a cape and practically ran to the door. "And Ensign! Be careful." Kim nodded and disappeared into the night.   
  
Chakotay knew the tasks would take some time. He wanted to spare Kim. He could do this himself. He pulled back the blankets and methodically ran his hands over Paris, searching for injuries. The bruises testified to the punishment he had received; there was no way to determine the internal injuries. His shoulders, back, thighs, and knees all had surface burns, as if he had pressed against hot metal. At least one rib on his right side was broken, maybe more. He could find no other evident broken bones, but he could feel a far more ominous threat - each tortured gasp sent deep rumbles through his chest. It seemed as though Paris was suffocating, or drowning. He lifted the blond head and rested it on his lap, hoping it would ease his breathing. Only then did he see a thick knot surrounding a small puncture wound on his neck. A sting? A bite of some kind? He could not tell.   
  
Chakotay then dispassionately bathed him. Repeatedly he dipped a rag into the water bowl, cleaning the worst if his wounds, wiping away the dirt and blood and his own filth, carefully redressing him in the Phrama clothes they had washed for him. He moved slowly, conscious to avoid further trauma. He knew Paris did not really care what he thought of him personally. That made it easier for the commander to deal with his unconscious form now, helpless and humiliated. At least Kim did not have to see him like this.   
  
In his soul, however, the spirits warred with one another. His recently-found respect aside, he had never personally cared for the former - what did he once call the admiral's son? Mercenary? He was not without his reasons. Nonetheless, Paris did not deserve this. He was a hero many times over. And Chakotay was his commanding officer. He owed Paris his life, was now bound to be his protector, and yet he had allowed this to happen. He had not wanted this, to be sure, but he should have shaken this planet to its very foundations before he let it claim his crewmate and charge.   
  
Paris coughed harshly and moaned as Chakotay turned him. Although sometimes still angrily defiant of the first officer, who knew the man he used to be all too well, Paris was now a penitent. His resentment flared less often, and less overtly. Now the two even shared an occasional joke, an occasional game of pool. On Voyager he was building a new life and fighting himself at every turn to do so. Volunteering to endure this torture was his attempt to do something noble, to spare others and accept punishment for the mistakes that still haunted him. The gasping body beneath Chakotay's hands was crucified on his own hopes of self-redemption, and his commander had not intervened. Each ministering touch to the lieutenant was Chakotay's silent act of penance.

* * *

Clothed and wrapped in blankets beside the fire, Paris struggled toward consciousness. Even before his eyes opened he choked on an urgent syllable: "Has!" It was as close to a scream as his shallow breath would allow.   
  
"Paris, it's Chakotay. You're all right. Calm down. You're safe."   
  
The pale blue eyes fought to focus and he whispered again, "Has." Another gasp, and violent coughing overcame him.   
  
"Has? I don't understand, Paris. Be quiet now, you are all right. Calm down." Chakotay held a wooden cup of water to his lips, but Paris turned away miserably and tried to free his arms from the blanket. "Mah hans," he mouthed in panic.   
  
Understanding hit Chakotay suddenly. When he had washed Paris he had removed the socks the lieutenant had worn on his hands. Evidently he was exposed to the frigid night and feared he might freeze. Chakotay's stomach twisted as the implications became clear, as he imagined the young officer deciding what he could lose first to frostbite as he slowly died a little at a time. He was a pilot. His hands were his life.   
  
"Tom, listen to me." He restrained the wild motions that threatened to steal such fragile breath. "Your hands are okay. They weren't damaged. Your hands are okay."   
  
Then Paris looked at him, fully lucid, for a long moment. Pain was etched into every feature of his face but he was calm. And aware. He grew still, satisfied that Chakotay spoke the truth. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. "Harry?" He mouthed the name as a question.   
  
"He is gathering wood and water. He's fine."   
  
This seemed to satisfy Paris. He drank from the bowl Chakotay offered and sank back against the blankets, exhausted.   
  
Chakotay just sat there, watching him, for some time. He was unsure what to do to help. Now that the lieutenant was conscious, Chakotay felt uncomfortable tending to him, as if his nearness to the vulnerable man were some kind of invasion. They had always observed each other's space. He was no doctor, but he had seen his share of injury and death on the front lines with the Maquis. The Phrama may not have wanted to kill Paris, but they came frighteningly close. They would have to watch and wait. Chakotay trembled in the wake of the adrenaline surge which had carried him this long. In a few hours dawn would come and they would be expected to work again in the fields. What then?   
  
At a noise outside, Chakotay fell silent and moved warily toward the door. Before he reached it Kim entered, his back loaded with blankets and a waterbag. "I stacked the wood outside the door," he panted, his breath white clouds in the cold night air. He carried a small metal pot in his arms. "Is he okay? Did he wake up?"   
  
Chakotay stepped aside to let Kim see his friend for himself, moving behind the ensign to help unload the supplies he carried. Shrugging off his burden and placing the pot on the floor, he knelt beside Paris and smiled. "Good to see you awake. You really had me scared."   
  
Paris returned the smile weakly. He opened his mouth to speak, then convulsed with coughs. Kim rested a hand on his fevered head until the fit passed. "Don't try to talk, just rest. I've got more water for you, and some soup when you feel like it." He held the waterbowl to Paris's lips and let him drink. "Did they give you any food while... while you were gone?" Paris's eyes grew vacant, and he shook his head. "When you've rested, then." /What did they do to you, Tom?/ Kim's voice grew husky as he looked at his friend's drawn face. "We're going to make you well, and we won't let them hurt you again."   
  
"S'okay... Harry," he whispered faintly. The haunted face appeared no more peaceful as Paris drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

Janeway entered the sickbay to find Kes surrounded by the three men she needed - and who, in return, needed her - the most. The Doctor was simultaneously asking her questions, running scans, and arguing with Neelix. Neelix was circling her bed with nervous steps, gesturing wildly and arguing with everyone. Tuvok's head was cocked to the side in thought, and his own deep tones joined the other voices, melding into a confusing medley that seemed to do nothing but aggravate all of the participants. Kes sat on the bed, chewing on her fingernail, curiously detached from the raucous attention focused on her. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes red-rimmed, as if she had been crying, but she now seemed utterly composed.   
  
"What's going on here, Doctor?" The voices quieted only partially as the Doctor crossed over to Janeway.   
  
"Mister Neelix tried to contact Kes. When she did not respond, he found her in her quarters, rather hysterical. When he tried to determine the reason why she was so upset, she could not explain it. He says, and these are his words, that she seemed 'disoriented' and 'foggy.' By the time she fully understood where she was and who was with her, he had carried her here."   
  
"Can you think of anything that could have caused this hysteria?"   
  
"Kes did complain of a nightmare. And Neelix has noted mood swings today. But I have no further explanations. Physically she is fine, except for mild exhaustion." His forehead wrinkled in deep concern. Janeway put a gentle hand on his arm in empathy. Then, abandoning him to his debate with Neelix and Tuvok, she stepped closer to the young Ocampa.   
  
"Captain?" Kes's naturally deep, resonating voice held no trace of hysteria. The quiet word contrasted sharply, in fact, with the heated tones of the others. Janeway lifted a commanding finger and the Doctor, Neelix and Tuvok all fell silent. Kes slowly turned on the bed to look at Janeway, her blue eyes calm and steady.   
  
"Yes, Kes? Talk to me."   
  
"I know how strange this will sound, Captain, but I don't believe that these emotions are mine."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
Kes registered the Doctor's uplifted brow and Neelix's frown of concern, then returned her attention to the Captain. "I believe... that I may be experiencing the feelings of the landing party."   
  
Janeway took a deep breath, then looked over her shoulder at her acting second-in-command. "Tuvok, could this be possible?"   
  
He considered it for a moment. "It is possible, Captain." He turned to his student. "Kes, why do you think you are experiencing the feelings of the Away Team? Is this in any way similar to how you have sensed the thoughts of crewmembers before on Voyager?"   
  
She chewed her lip, choosing her words carefully. "Yes and no. I feel recognition. I know the person whose feelings I am experiencing. So it is not random. But I can't read thoughts, just extremely strong emotions. And these feelings seem as if they are echoing from far away, clear but distant, the same way I experienced the thoughts of the other Ocampa we encountered on the array."   
  
Tuvok continued thinking aloud. "Those Ocampa were calling you, Kes. And they, like you, had extraordinary telepathic and telekinetic abilities. Are the officers on the planet seeking contact with you? And if so, how? I do not believe Commander Chakotay, Lieutenant Paris, or Ensign Kim have ever tested positive for telepathic potential."   
  
She shook her head. "No, I don't think they were seeking me in any way. I just felt what was going on..."   
  
Janeway frowned and then interrupted. "If I may, Kes, what exactly did you feel was 'going on'?"   
  
She sighed, as if steeling herself to visit unwelcome territory. "In my dream, I was sure that Lieutenant Paris was being tortured. He was in agony, and frightened, and after a while he was so desperate, he was beyond reason... it was horrible for him." She paused, shuddering in remembrance, letting her audience absorb what she was saying. "At first I thought I was just worried about Tom, but then the feelings kept returning. Now there's a general worry, like a 'background hum,' that could be the other two officers. But Tom is still in pain. He is not being hurt now, but he is wounded, afraid, and very sad. It was as if his soul screamed out and I heard it."   
  
Janeway, Neelix, and the Doctor stood in shocked silence. Tuvok recovered from the unexpected news first. "It is logical that, if Kes were to experience a link with any crewmember, it would be one for whom she has an emotional attachment. I believe that you and Mister Paris are close friends." She nodded in reply. "And if Mister Paris were put in an unpleasant situation, more so than the other officers, his emotions might be stronger, and thus more easily received telepathically."   
  
"Tuvok, this could explain why the landing party hasn't returned yet. If what Kes says is true..."   
  
"Pardon me, Captain, but aren't we being a bit too hasty?" Neelix interrupted. Janeway crossed her arms in displeasure at Neelix's outburst, but she could not bring herself to reproach him. She knew any stress on Kes was also stress on Neelix. Besides, the Talaxian did have a way of seeing things from another angle. And she was not anxious to accept the reality that Paris had been tortured while she orbited the offending world, oblivious to his need for help.   
  
"Explain."   
  
"Kes believes the ancient legends of her people, about their mental abilities. And the other Ocampa we encountered, they only added to her expectations. Now that she has friends who have not returned from their mission on time, it is easy to add up a bad dream and natural concern and believe that she somehow knows what's happened to them. She's tired and she's worried. What she needs is a good dinner and a good night's sleep. If you have a bad dream or worries about the Away Team, don't you count it as natural reaction to the fact your officers are in danger? Why should Kes be any different? Can't she have the same subconscious reactions we do without it being some mysterious telepathic phenomenon?"   
  
The Doctor bristled visibly during Neelix's commentary. "Well, Mister Neelix, I was not aware that you were trained in psychological and neurological studies. Perhaps you can instruct me in your free hours on the dynamics of the telepathic-telekinetic subconscious."   
  
Tuvok likewise reacted to the Talaxian's queries immediately. "I do not believe that you appreciate the full extent of Kes's abilities, Mister Neelix. She has a potential that we cannot even fully understand."   
  
Janeway shook her head. "I agree with you, Mister Tuvok, but Mister Neelix has a point. We should not jump to conclusions just because Kes has certain gifts. She is also Humanoid, and vulnerable to the same factors that we are - Vulcans excepted, of course." A wicked half-smile, a touch of humanity in the midst of a tense situation. Then, somber again, she looked to Kes. "What do you think? Could exhaustion and worry account for what you are feeling?"   
  
Gentle eyes on the Talaxian, Kes replied, "I know Neelix worries that I take things too seriously sometimes. And I know it's because he cares about me. But this is unlike anything I have experienced before. And I have been more exhausted, even terrified, before, and this did not happen. It was so clear, Captain. I have to believe it's what I think it is." Her eyes then sought out her teacher, at once plaintive and apologetic. "I realize this is a private thing, Tuvok, but, if you think it would help, I'd be willing to share my memories."   
  
Sickbay went quiet. Everyone felt the weight of what she was suggesting. Waiting a heartbeat, to give him time to consider the proposition, Janeway spoke softly. "That's your decision, Tuvok." /I haven't forgotten the time that I thought I'd lost you in Suder's mind. That's why I told you to always ask my permission first. I had to be sure you would be safe. But I will give you permission if you decide to do this. It's your call now, old friend./   
  
He met her eyes as if she were the only one in the room. /Most appreciated, Captain./ He drew a deep breath. "I know you respect the Vulcan sense of privacy, Captain. For that I thank you. I do not object to what Kes suggests, however. Her mind... is not foreign to me." Behind Tuvok, Neelix shifted uncomfortably at the admission, aware that it touched on an intimate relationship, a literal meeting of the minds between the mentor and acolyte, which he could never share with Kes.   
  
Janeway took the statement for what she knew it was: the closest thing to an outright expression of concern for Kes that Tuvok could make. /I know you are worried, Tuvok./   
  
A curt nod. "All right, then. Mister Tuvok, I will be interested to hear your interpretation of Kes's experiences when you are finished. Shall we leave you now?" She gestured to the Doctor and Neelix to retreat with her and leave the two alone. The Doctor frowned disapprovingly, and Neelix drew a breath to protest.   
  
Tuvok preempted their refusal smoothly. "Captain, I do not object to your presence." It cost him. Only Janeway knew that this was a gesture of kindness to his young pupil, to have those who cared near her. "But this procedure requires complete silence." He looked pointedly at both Neelix and the Doctor.   
  
"Understood, Mister Tuvok. I assure you that we will cooperate fully." It was her turn to throw pointed glances.   
  
"Are you prepared for this now, Kes?" The Vulcan made his way to the bed where she sat. Trust showed openly in the youthful face. She nodded, then closed her eyes. Instinctively, she leaned into the dark hands that sought her pale temples.   
  
"My thoughts to your thoughts, my mind to your mind..."   
  
In unison, their features twisted, and their lips parted in silent screams.

* * *

Tom Paris regained consciousness incrementally, with intriguing clarity of thought and sensation. The pain in his lungs was searing, tearing through his body from his aching back to his broken ribs, shattering the fragile link between his thoughts and his abused body. Every shiver registered and confirmed his own aloof self-diagnosis. /I'm in shock./ But he could not share the prognosis, could not stir his bruised frame to action. He was separated from the scene at hand. An outside observer. Apart.   
  
Even now, as the firelight played across the faces of Chakotay and Harry Kim, he marveled at his inability to care, to partake in their hushed, frantic concern over his welfare. Just a few minutes ago he had feared for his hands. Now his very survival seemed uninteresting. Coolness, welcome moisture. Harry was running a damp rag across his brow. Speaking to him, to the blank eyes, those windows into a world too distant to see. More blankets, the very jacket from Chakotay's back. He could not stop trembling. He withdrew in a philosophical way. Ironic, it was, that it would end like this. But typical. He had lived his life in bursts of brilliance, parted by stretches of wretched mediocrity, at times even failure. He could handle the heroic moment, just not the constant day-to-day. And it had led to this.   
  
He had tried. Tried to do one more good thing, one more burst to perhaps outweigh the seemingly endless periods of sarcasm, cynicism, and disappointment. Tried to spare others. Tried to die well, if he had to die at all. But here he was, reduced to a shivering, broken body on a cold dirt floor, breathing in hideous, agonized gasps. A burden to his commander. A heartbreak to his best friend. Slipping deeper into shock. Waiting for the end. A death as slow and wearisome as the greater number of his days. Somewhere far away, in one of the dark recesses of his mind that still offered commentary on his plight, silent laughter echoed. /How pathetic. How very Tom Paris./ And how appropriate, that the one surge of emotion that survived to the end would be his own self-loathing.   
  
There was no point in trying to understand what they were saying. There was no energy with which to try, anyway. He heard the words of his shipmates, but they held no meaning.   
  
"The old Phrama laborer that I told you about, they call her a wise woman and healer. She offered me the soup. She said it would help him."   
  
"Does she know what they did to him?"   
  
"She had an idea. But I... I don't want him to hear."   
  
"It's okay, I don't think he's aware right now. Quietly."   
  
"Does he have a small wound in his neck, like a point of a needle -"   
  
"Yes, and it's swollen. What is it?"   
  
"She... she said that, on top of the torture, they've infected him with this disease that destroys the lungs... It's a favorite they only use on 'special occasions'... "   
  
"And its effects?"   
  
"Pain. She put herbs in the soup to dull it... She said the Phrama workers who've been infected are bedridden. They can hardly breathe. They just... just waste away before everyone's eyes, and finally die."   
  
"How long ?"   
  
"It depends on age, on stamina. From a few hours to a few weeks. She says they are terrified of it, because it is slow and so painful."   
  
"Do you trust her to tell you the truth?"   
  
"Yes... I do. And sir, there's more. The guards try to force them out to work, to show them off to the others. They try to make a spectacle out of them..."   
  
"I understand... We have to remember that we can't be sure how this will affect Paris, because he's Human... But whatever happens, we won't let them drag him into the fields."   
  
"They'll punish us if he doesn't fill his quota."   
  
"I know. We'll just have to get out of here soon."   
  
"Can he travel?"   
  
"If what you say is true, he will only get worse. We need to act quickly."   
  
"What can we do?"   
  
"You can sleep."   
  
"Now?"   
  
"Now. That's an order. I need you to sleep, because I'll want you clear-headed in an hour or so when I wake you up and brief you."   
  
"On what?"   
  
"Our escape plan."   
  
Paris was only marginally aware that Kim curled beside him in a protective ball, sharing the corners of the blankets that covered him. That Chakotay sat across from the fire, cross-legged with his palms pressed to the dirt floor, keeping both the door and the lieutenant in view as he gathered his thoughts. That a new dawn would soon break onto the blood-red alien horizon. Paris's reality was crumbling all around him in cadence with the echoes of his shredded breaths.

* * *

When Tuvok terminated the meld, Janeway felt as exhausted as Kes looked. The delicate Ocampa swayed back into Neelix's arms, which eased her into a resting position on the sickbay bed. She was wet-cheeked and worn, but she wearily assured both Neelix and the Doctor that she was fine. Relieved, in a way, to share the images she had experienced.   
  
Tuvok stepped back from Kes, shakily reaching behind himself to locate the biobed before sitting down heavily. His captain stood quietly at his elbow. "Tuvok, are you all right?" He nodded without meeting her eyes. His gaze seemed intent on the scenes he had witnessed within Kes's mind. Sickbay grew still, waiting for him to speak. The Doctor, Neelix, and Janeway all exchanged impatient, anxious looks. But they waited.   
  
Finally, the Vulcan cleared his throat and turned toward Janeway. "Captain, I must concur with Kes's interpretation of her experiences. It seems that she has felt the emotions of Lieutenant Paris, on the surface below. It would appear that he has been tortured."   
  
Janeway lowered her head into her palm, and her shoulders sagged for a minute, perhaps two. When she looked again at her security officer, she drew herself up to her full height and folded her arms across her chest in defiance of the situation and the odds. "Then we know that the Away Team is under duress. We know that they've encountered hostile lifeforms and they're unable to return to Voyager. The questions, then, are how to locate them on the surface, and how to retrieve them without putting the rescue team in the same danger the landing party now faces." She whirled to the Doctor. "May we use sickbay for an impromptu meeting, Doctor? I want Kes and Tuvok to be included, but I expect you want to keep an eye on them a little longer."   
  
His thin lips pursed in pleasant surprise. He was clearly pleased to have so much going on around him. "But of course, Captain. I -"   
  
"Thank you." A swift hand tapped her communicator. "Lieutenant Torres, report to sickbay. Immediately."

* * *

Chakotay left them that day to work in the fields. Kim stayed with Paris. The lieutenant could not be left alone. In the night they had been forced to sit him up and hold him several times just so he could breath. Kim gave him water and soup and reassurance, although the tortured man barely registered any of these. Most importantly, the ensign remained with Paris to protect him from any Phrama guards who might be ordered to bring him out and make a spectacle of his helplessness.   
  
When Chakotay returned at sunset he stumbled wearily into the tiny cabin, sinking to his knees before the fire pit. Sweat gleamed on his bare olive-toned chest. He looked up at Kim, armed against his entrance with the metal pot, and smiled despite himself. "You're a threatening figure, Ensign. I surrender."   
  
Kim grinned sheepishly. Stepping around the pit to offer Chakotay water, he gasped as he caught glimpse of the commander's back, cut into thin bloody ribbons from his waist to his torn neck. "Renoja?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
The whipping was not severe enough to prevent him from working, but it would have made every movement difficult. A knot formed in Kim's throat. Chakotay shook his head at the unspoken sympathy. "He warned us what would happen if the quotas weren't filled. I knew what I was getting into. I'll be okay." He drank thirstily. His eyes roamed the hut, noting appreciatively that Kim had washed every spare piece of clothing and cookery while he was gone.   
  
"Food?"   
  
Chakotay looked at the sack of meal and thought of the thin paste it made. His stomach had refused to accept the fact that the Phrama workers' fare was its only option. The gruel, combined with the heat and labor of the day, would be unwise. Eating again would only make him ill, slowing them down and dehydrating him further. He shook his head, then nodded toward Paris. "Any change?"   
  
"Not really, although he let me feed him a little of that soup. He's not noticeably worse." /Or better./   
  
"Good." He sat, debating silently with himself for a moment. Then he drew his knees up to his chest and let his head fall stiffly forward on crossed arms. "Give me just a few moments." His words were muffled against his skin. "Go ahead and wrap the bowls and tools into a blanket. I'll just take a minute or two."   
  
Kim nodded and began moving quietly around the cabin. It stunned him to realize that Chakotay had not slept in the last two days. Not that he had exactly had sweet dreams himself. But Chakotay had not even tried to rest. He glanced at the hunched figure. The deep breaths that rippled the muscles of the torn back reflected silent meditation, not sleep. But Kim knew that Chakotay respected his own limits. Had he not led a Maquis ship in guerrilla warfare? The Commander knew the demands made by his body, when he could postpone them and when he had to obey. Sighing, Kim collected the contents of the cabin together, spoons and bowls, twisting them into a coiled blanket thoughtfully. He then gathered and folded the blankets and ragged clothes that had been discarded during the day as the heat intensified.   
  
He was adjusting an unconscious Paris when Chakotay raised his head. "I'm going to wash my back in the stream and have a look around. How are things here?"   
  
"Ready, sir."   
  
"Good. When I return, we move."

* * *

Chakotay reentered the cabin sparkling with stream-water droplets, shivering with the coming of the chill night. His mouth formed an "o" as he took in deep breaths to combat his body's reaction to the cold. His steps still betrayed fatigue, but they were purposeful and controlled nonetheless.   
  
While he had washed his back and surveyed the area, Kim had added layers to Paris's clothing and wrapped the suffering lieutenant securely in their least worn blanket. He had also started a fire in the fire pit. Chakotay drew close to its fledgling heat, surveyed the small shelter and its contents and nodded. "Good work. We'd better wear as much of the clothing as we can."   
  
Kim nodded and held up a torn shirt. /Okay, let's try this "reach out to Chakotay" thing one more time./ "Would you like me to bandage your back before you put something on?"   
  
The tension in his shoulders relaxed visibly since Kim spared him the need of asking. "I'd appreciate it." He knelt compliantly. "Looks like you've become this mission's medical officer." Kim chuckled, pleased with this minor success, and worked swiftly, tying strips of the shirt like bandages around his commander. /That wasn't so bad./ His hands were quick but gentle, and Chakotay held his breath and remained still until the ensign had finished.   
  
"There, I think that will protect the wounds from your clothing. "   
  
"Thank you, Mister Kim." He rose stiffly and began adding layers of shirts, beginning with his Starfleet undershirt. His demeanor changed subtly, gratefulness melting into preoccupied concentration. "It looks like the workers are inside for the night. Are you clear on what to do?"   
  
"Yes, sir." Kim wrapped the last of the shirts around his own shoulders.   
  
"After we begin there may be little chance for communication."   
  
"Understood."   
  
"Fine. Good luck." Their calm made the situation surreal to Kim, their careful pace at odds with the desperation of their actions. But he could see how Chakotay had made a successful Maquis Captain. His tranquillity, while disconcertingly out of place, was also comforting somehow. Kim knelt at the fire and gathered the small flint-set together. Chakotay strapped the tool-filled, twisted blankets to his own back, criss-crossing them like ancient ammunition belts. Kim winced just thinking about the weight against his fresh wounds, but said nothing. He would have his own burdens to worry about soon enough. With a curt nod to Chakotay and a backward glance at Paris, Kim slipped out of the cabin and into the darkness.   
  
Standing still in the silent dwelling, Chakotay shivered despite his heavy clothing and the growing blaze in the pit. The black sky - he could see it through the smoke-hole in the roof, its opaque depth like a dark pool of water above him - seemed utterly innocent of the night's occurrences. He was thankful for it, as if it were some objective bystander, a representative of history to chronicle this drama. All the while he gazed into the night he counted the minutes quietly to himself. /Eight... Nine... Ten./   
  
In the corner, Tom Paris swam through a brief moment of clarity. He could make out the commander's pillar-straight figure in the flickering light. Staring at the sky as if it were holy, Chakotay murmured private words to what must have been an ancient spirit. And nodded, as if he had received answer. Instinctively Paris shuddered with the weight of whatever was happening. He could sense the somber gravity of Chakotay's mood. The commander stood for so long without making a motion, Paris was shocked when the solitary figure suddenly turned to him silently. Then the former Maquis bent down before the semi-conscious navigation officer and guided his lips to water. It was curious, frightening, that the commander then hauled him up to a sitting position, whispering a short few comforting phrases of safety and reassurance. So this was it. He could not process the words, the plan. But he could feel the intensity of the moment. A moment drifting hopelessly out of focus. He was slipping again. Fading away. Gone.   
  
Chakotay crouched for a moment next to the slumping Paris and considered the passing time. Then he shifted to his feet, squatting and drawing Paris's weight over one taut shoulder. He stumbled backwards, sat, shifted Paris, and tried again. Awkwardly he finally stood. Half-straightened. Turned. Looked up through the roof's smoke-hole.   
  
The sky was on fire.   
  
/And so it begins./ Panicked wallibeves bellowed, sounding crazed, guttural cries. A new smoke mingled with familiar scents. /Almost there./ Paris's gasps were growing louder. The body Chakotay held twisted jerkily with the labor of breathing. /Just a moment more./ Hold on. The commander strained to listen, strained to hold himself still. The rhythm of hoofbeats. /Now./   
  
He leaned his weight into the door. The darkness was marred by the pulsing light of burning stalls beyond the boundary of the small labor village. He tore his eyes from the mesmerizing sight, peering into the murky night for Kim. Abruptly a wallibeve emerged from the blackness and stomped to a halt only inches away from Chakotay. He reached up with his free hand, felt his way along the saddle, finally met Kim's clenched fist. It uncurled, offering him the reins. He could hear the heavy breathing of a second wallibeve, the one that carried Kim, although he could not see it. It pawed at the ground, sidestepping in terror, snorting its dismay.   
  
/Time, time, hurry./ He launched himself up toward the beast and flailed, dragged down by the weight of Paris and his own abused body. /Try again. Don't panic./ When he finally swung himself over the mount's back he could not stifle a short cry of pain. But the rest was easy in comparison. Sliding Paris down in front of him in the saddle, wrapping the reins around his wrists, shifting his protesting legs on the frightfully-wide wallibeve into position.   
  
Phrama shouts. Screams. Splashes of light reflected on the sky. The stalls were burning and the fiefdom was coming alive.   
  
Chakotay did not need to urge his wallibeve into a gallop. It took off with all the power of its instinct for survival. He could sense Kim following suit. Around the huts, across the field. As planned. Under cover of darkness. And the fire would require all of the attention of Llilegrough's men. For a while. A short while. He had no delusions about how brief their window of opportunity would be. Paris's head was buried in Chakotay's chest, his unconscious form draped sideways, his cocooned body held in place by the commander's arms as they reached for the reins. Kim, laden with newly-stolen tools, clanged rhythmically behind them. They were alive. They were together. They were escaping. /Be merciful in your judgment of us, Sister Sky./ Chakotay became something elemental, unleashing the carefully-controlled forces within him, propelling them forward with his anger, his fear, his will. /Go, go, go, go, go.../

* * *

Something, an intensity, a turning point, something important was happening. For a brief moment Kes saw the world through Paris's eyes, the disjointed view narrowing and dissolving with his own loss of awareness. She shivered without knowing why.   
  
She hurried her pace to the shuttle bay, hitting her communicator as she walked. "Tuvok? I'd like to go now, please."   
  
A pause. The request was unorthodox, even insubordinate. But the Vulcan no longer thought in those terms. Not with Kes, not now. He asked no questions. "I will inform the captain that we shall depart a few minutes ahead of schedule. I am on my way."   
  
"Thank you." She broke out into a run.

* * *

When they had passed the solitary cubes that market the border of the interior of Llilegrough's lands, Chakotay and Kim allowed their wallibeves to drop into a rhythmic canter. Exhausting their mounts immediately could only hurt them later. Besides, neither Chakotay nor Kim had ever ridden such an animal before. A less punishing pace appealed to them both.   
  
Eyes now adjusted to the dark, Chakotay led them along the planned route toward the crash site. He could see the white puffs of Kim's breath over his right shoulder. The shouts and cries from the Phrama carried over the flat terrain and urged them onward, reminding them that their flight would ultimately be discovered. Chakotay could not help but think of the other time they traversed this terrain. They had been hot, thirsty and bound. But Paris had been whole and strong. The limp body curled against him now made no motions save the involuntary shudders that accompanied his painful breaths.   
  
After a mockingly short distance, considering the difficulty of their passage on foot in the daytime heat days before, the riders approached the rocky boulders of the foothills. The stones deflected the sounds of the Phrama from behind them and threw the echoes in fantastic directions. The Starfleet officers sounded at once both alone and surrounded. They picked their way around rocks, finally approaching the two jagged formations that had held the shuttle. Chakotay signaled Kim.   
  
The shuttle was gone.   
  
So was their chance of escaping the planet.   
  
"Commander..." Kim's voice reverberated, calling the title again and again. Chakotay met this eyes and watched Kim's determined professionalism fight bewilderment and disappointment. He himself had no explanation for this mysterious disappearance. They stared at each other for a moment, absorbing this development. It was a contingency for which they had planned, but neither man was truly expecting it. Seeing the vacant cleft was a harsh blow.   
  
The Phrama curses, the wallibeves' hoofbeats, thundered at them. Was the canyon distorting the distant sounds, or were pursuers closing in on them? It was not a question they could afford to ponder. /Abandon escape, embrace survival./ They had no other choice. Adjusting Paris's weight and whirling his mount, Chakotay faced his shipmate.   
  
"Mister Kim, into the mountains! Now!"

* * *

"Tuvok to Voyager."   
  
"Janeway here."   
  
"We are approaching the atmosphere of the planet."   
  
"Maintain an open channel. I want communication as long as possible." /Even if Lieutenant Torres's additional external sensors successfully relay the information to us, I want more than data back. I want you back, Tuvok. I can't lose you, too./   
  
"Understood." /You worry, Captain. Surely you know that I will return to your side if I am able./ "Our angle of approach will allow us to 'skip' off the atmosphere and analyze the data before we commit to entry. Impact... now."   
  
"WARNING. WARNING -"   
  
"Tuvok!"   
  
"Hold on, Kes -"   
  
"Mister Tuvok, report!"   
  
"- WILL RENDER THIS SHUTTLE POWERLESS -"   
  
"Captain, we cannot -"   
  
"Tuvok! My console is blinking! The power is -"   
  
"- WARNING -"   
  
"Tuvok! What's going on?"   
  
There was silence. Kathryn Janeway's fist clenched and opened spasmodically. "Torres, have we got their data?"   
  
"Coming through now, Captain."   
  
"I want an explanation -"   
  
"Tuvok to Voyager." /We are well, Captain./   
  
She took a deep breath, crossing her arms, hugging herself in silent thankfulness. "Report, Mister Tuvok."   
  
"It appears that our concerns regarding the atmosphere were justified, Captain. Full contact with it must have disabled the shuttle. The Away Team must have crash-landed after losing power." /We cannot follow them./   
  
A sigh. /I know what that means, to us, to the landing party. "Are you all right? Is Kes?" /Of course you are. Nothing would fluster you./   
  
"We are well, Captain."   
  
"Good. Then return to Voyager. Lieutenant Torres is analyzing the information now." /Come on Kath, you didn't think it would be that easy, did you? Settle yourself down. This could be a long process./ She swallowed convulsively. /Just hope the landing party can survive it./   
  
"Affirmative, Captain. Tuvok out." His long fingers played across the console, then he sat back and regarded his companion. He hesitated before choosing his words. "I know that this is difficult for you." He searched for more. "I ... regret the fact that we must return."   
  
Kes said nothing. Her eyes were unfocused, staring glazedly. Silent tears spilled from her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.   
  
"We can be of no help to them if we, too, are captured."   
  
She nodded her understanding. Took breaths in short little sips. Pressed her fingers to her lips. "We were just... so close. Analyzing the data, making a new plan, it will all take time. I don't know, I don't know if we have time, Tuvok... I am losing him."   
  
END OF CHAPTER ONE


	2. As We Tremble and Bleed

CHAPTER TWO   
  
"I know we don't talk about it.   
We don't tell each other   
All the little things that we need.   
We work our way around each other   
As we tremble and bleed."   
- Todd Park Mohr

* * *

Kes sat alone, her legs dangling, swinging erratically over the edge of the billiards table. So much time wasted while the officers poured over the data. Slow, sensual music played in the background, a little too low to be heard distinctly. She had removed the holographic characters so she would be undisturbed. But there were ghosts in Sandrine's, all around her. The room was thick with them.   
  
Gaudy perfume, wood polish, strong whisky. She shook her head in amazement. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had asked B'Elanna to program smells into this simulation. An intangible bittersweetness, like baby powder mingled with beer, almost too faint to detect. What was it? The scent of abandoned innocence. It was gone. She hopped down from the table, stepping tentatively in different directions, trying to recapture the fleeing fragrance. Where did it go? She could feel her heartbeat throbbing in her neck. It was important, whatever it was. Her world narrowed until this quest was all it held. Wait. There it was again. Clean. Scrubbed. Fallen.   
  
/Tom./   
  
Kes knew that Torres could not have programmed this. Her mind was aching with effort and toying with reality. She sat in the floor where she had been standing. /Tom, you are just beyond my reach. I've stretched with every nerve, every sense I have, but you're fading away. You've got to help me with this!/ The thought was a new one. She paused uncertainly. /How can you help me? Do you even know what I am trying here? Can I touch your mind like you touched mine? Can I send you a signal? Can you respond?/   
  
"Kes?" A tentative voice, so soft she did not register it. A cough, another tremulous try. "Kes?"   
  
She did not turn around, did not move from where she sat in the middle of Sandrine's floor. "Neelix?" Her voice sounded far stronger than his.   
  
"Yes, it's me, sweetie." He waited for a reaction but received none. "Are you okay?"   
  
"I'm fine, Neelix, just thinking." Bright blue eyes peered over her shoulder at him, waiting for him to continue.   
  
"Why don't you come eat some dinner with me, then maybe we could go back to my quarters and listen to some music. Get you mind off of everything?" He clasped his hands in front of him nervously.   
  
"Thank you, Neelix, but I can't right now. I have to concentrate." She swiveled to face him, but she never met his eyes. "I wish I'd learned more from the other Ocampa on the array. If I knew how to use my mind more fully, I'd know the best way to follow the landing party. As it is, I am having to stumble along on my own and teach myself." Her fingers pressed a throbbing point at her temple distractedly.   
  
It occurred to Neelix that she really was not talking to him at all. He cleared his throat as if to remind her of his presence. "But Kes, dear, the officers will devise some way of penetrating the atmosphere and finding the shuttle. Don't worry..."   
  
"You don't understand, do you?" It was a simple question. No malice or judgment. He had no answer. "They aren't with the shuttle. They have been captured. They could be anywhere. And the only way we might have of finding them is this link I somehow have. And I can only sense one of them, the one who is injured, fading away. I've got to find a way to hold onto them." She put her hand out to him conciliatorily. "Do you see? I can't afford to 'get my mind off' of this. I have to stay focused and figure it out."   
  
He nodded mutely and took her hand. "I guess I'm just a little... uncomfortable about the whole thing, that's all."   
  
She drew him down next to her and wrapped her arm through his. "About Ocampa abilities?"   
  
"No, not so much anymore, I don't think. I know you're special... you're with me, right?" Even he did not smile at his own forced bravado. "I'm afraid about what this could mean for you - experiencing what they're experiencing, working so hard to develop this link... I can't explain it. I'm just worried for you, and for us." She leaned her head on his shoulder silently. "I'm here for you, Kes, even if I don't understand what's going on." She lifted her head and smiled then, a sad smile, and withdrew her arm so that she could wrap it around his sturdy back. He rocked toward her as she drew him near and placed his head on her shoulder as she had done to him seconds earlier.   
  
"I have to believe everything will be all right." She whispered the words to him and he nodded, resigned. Still holding him close, she returned again to her thoughts.   
  
/He wants me to assure him all is well. I don't know that it is. Or will be. But I'll do my best to make it so. Dear, sweet Neelix, I'll hold it all together, I promise, for you, for me, for the three men on the surface down below./ She rubbed her aching eyes with her free hand. Exhaustion haunted her and made the unspoken vow seem cruelly difficult to keep.   
  
/As long as I have the strength./

* * *

All she could do was wait. Torres and her team needed time and peace to process the data from the shuttle. Then they could talk about options. How a rescue team could get to the planet. How they could find the missing men. How they could return. 

But waiting never came easily to Kathryn Janeway. She was grateful for her reserve of replicator rations, saved for just such a situation. The espresso burned her throat and she arched her neck appreciatively. The ready room swam with the aroma, bitterness so biting it tasted on the tongue. To others it signaled jittered, frenetic activity, but to her it was a comforting comrade-in-arms. The night would be long and she was far from sleep.   
  
She tucked her legs beneath her on the couch. Her quarters would not do. The stiff bonnet and heavy cloak would haunt her, reminding her of the holosuite hours she had enjoyed while her navigation officer had suffered torture on the planet below. Intellectually, she knew that she could not have known of Paris's plight. But guilt was seldomly rational.   
  
Besides, the bonnet and cape represented waste. /Think how many cups of coffee I could've replicated with those credits.../ She chuckled bitterly to herself and took another deep swallow. There were many things she wanted right now. To see a dark, broad presence, hands clasped behind him, nodding gravely to her as she commented on his first officer's report. So sober, so serious. If she were lucky, she might make him smile once, a concession to their steadily-growing familiarity and rapport. Or vulnerable blue eyes, carrying her on a breathtaking ride through despair to invincibility to cynicism, and perhaps even hope, all in one look. What had Chakotay called him? Her "personal reclamation project"? Of all of them on board, he was the most fragile. Another gulp, biting at her senses. He knew it, too. That grieved her the most. And what of a ramrod-straight youth, burgeoning with talent and possibilities? She had lost him once and her heart had screamed, even as she had forced outward impassivity. Having his parallel-self on board had erased that pain. If she had thought of her conversation with his mother once, she had relived it a million times. It was right before they left spacedock, right before they disappeared. /You had the right to be proud of him. He's one of the finest I've ever known./   
  
The cup was empty. She sighed. /Why do you do this to yourself? She rolled her neck, stretching. It was a familiar question. You know why. You never want to forget what's at stake. You can't make people into numbers, and determine their fate by some equation. Compassion and care are Human strengths, not weaknesses./ She played idly with the dry mug, still warm from its former contents. /Don't be afraid to feel for them, Kath./   
  
Rubbing the leg that threatened to go to sleep, she shifted slightly on the couch. /That's easy to say now. A time will come when you'll have to make hard choices. Pleasant platitudes will be just so many words then./ She twisted again, failing to burrow into a comfortable spot on the couch. It would be a long night, indeed.

* * *

Awareness appeared out of nowhere, a surprise for one who had thought it gone forever. But nothing comforting met him. His stomach twisted as he relived the experience, felt the alien hands hold him to the ground, felt his own traitorous body writhe and scream and entertain them. Wretched humiliation. He feared he would die. He wanted to die. Painful paradox in constant tension. Anywhere, anywhere but here, anywhere but beneath these eyes, the eyes of his torturers. The fevered dream held him captive, like the Phrama guards that had beaten him and laughed at his feeble attempts to protect himself. He shuddered and cried out a ragged, raw plea. "Kes!"   
  
Beside him, a protective hand on the thin shoulder, Kim looked embarrassed at the strangled syllable of the Ocampa's name. Across the fire from him, Chakotay had the gallantry to pretend he did not notice.   
  
Their camp, like the others before it, lasted one night. They traveled farther into the mountains at daybreak.

* * *

"Go on, then. Go off shift. I work better alone, anyway. Just go." 

"Lieutenant..."   
  
"Go!"   
  
Crewmen shuffled awkwardly from the holodeck, leaving B'Elanna Torres crouched on the floor, alone. A cluttered pile of datapadds surrounded her. "Be glad I didn't break your noses," she mumbled darkly.   
  
"Up the velocity... angle... 5 degrees..." She crawled over hardware, rubbed her forehead, and threw a right-handed spanner at the wall. "Computer, resume simulation."   
  
Typing figures into the console, the engineer slid into the all-too-familiar seat of the simulated shuttle. "Oooooookay. Now. Computer, begin ascent sequence."   
  
Elsewhere on the ship, Kathryn Janeway was preparing to go on duty. Wrapped in a rose silk gown, she leaned over the lavatory in her quarters and wound her hair up the back of her head. She hummed absently to the music she had programmed, the madrigals complete with lyre and virginals alternating with the stunningly acappella Gregorian liturgies. The melodies were familiar friends. They dated back to several centuries, as much Eleanor of Aquitaine as Anne Boleyn. Whether for God or King or lover, they were all songs of love. Strong and sensual. Her lips moved to the chant without her realizing it. "Non nobis Domine, non nobis, Sed nomine tuo da glorium." Latin. Old English. French. So reassuringly familiar.   
  
The haunting phrases continued. "Media vita in morte sumus: quem quaerimus adiutorem..." She chilled as the meaning of the mournful words struck her foggy reason. "In the midst of life, we are in death: from whom should we seek help..."   
  
"Computer, end music." /My officers.../ Each luxury she had enjoyed - the heat of a bath, the feel of silk, the sound of beloved music - was lost to the three stranded men. She wondered about their food, their shelter, their clothing. They were two smart, able officers led by a former Maquis Captain, seasoned in danger and deprivation. If anyone could survive, they could. But still...   
  
The uniform went on. /There will be hours for despair after shift is over. There's a time and place for everything./ She affixed the communicator and took one more glance in the mirror. /You've looked a lot better. Well, sleeplessness does that for you. /   
  
Her pin chirped. "Janeway here."   
  
"Captain... I've got it! We can power down and fall through the top layer of atmosphere, and then punch through on momentum to return. It will require a precise speed and trajectory on the ascent, but it will work -"   
  
"B'Elanna, where are you?"   
  
"I've been running simulations in the holodeck -"   
  
"I'm on my way."   
  
The lieutenant propped her feet up on the console, smiling. She cleared her throat, raw from screams and shouts of frustration. "Torres to Kes. Do I have news for you... "   
  
[ "Not unto us, Oh Lord, not unto us, But unto Thy name be glory given." From "Non Nobis Domine," medieval chant. Author and date unknown. Carved on the portal of the church of Pont-Hubert (near Troyes in France) by anonymous artist.   
  
From "Processional Responsory for the Sundays immediately proceeding Lent," traditional medieval Gregorian chant. Author and date unknown.]

* * *

The resulting rescue attempt was tragically short-lived. By the time Janeway arrived at the shuttle bay to meet the two team members, Kes was gone. Torres was still there, pacing the quiet metal interior with long, erratic strides like a caged tigress. The captain entered quietly, searching for the appropriate way to approach her seething chief engineer. A scream pierced the close space, echoing with the sound of Torres hitting the shuttle's hull flat-handed. Janeway jumped at the unexpected wail. 

"Feel any better?"   
  
"No."   
  
"If you'd said yes, I think I'd have slapped the shuttle, too. I'm searching for some new outlets."   
  
Torres smiled crookedly, appreciating Janeway's attempt at comfort. "Kes has gone to her quarters, to rest. She was exhausted."   
  
"How did she take it?"   
  
"It was her suggestion. I wanted to go ahead, I wanted to try..." She looked like she was considering hitting the shuttle again. "But we couldn't. There was no way to conduct a search in those conditions. By the time we got our bearings and started, we could have been immobilized by the weather. She understood that the attempt had to wait. She was very strong -"   
  
"You made the right choice."   
  
"I'm sure Chakotay, Tom, and Harry feel the same way." She leaned into the cold metal. How long would it be before the frigid winter crept up the continent and swallowed them? Could they survive it?   
  
"B'Elanna." The word exuded empathy.   
  
"I'll be able to project when the winter passes and we can return."   
  
"Good."   
  
"The only way this will work is with Kes. It's a large landmass, Captain. She's our compass. Not two, not twenty, not two thousand people could find them down there. This will be a long, hard season for her."   
  
Janeway nodded gravely, but Torres continued before she could speak. "Permission to speak freely, Captain?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
"I would really appreciate a few moments alone in here. I still have some screaming to do before I officially reboard."

* * *

Some of the adaptations were conscious decisions, and others evolved organically over time. Choosing the clearing, where the brook ran down from the mountaintop and the tree line provided shade and shelter, was a natural and welcome end to their flight. With Paris safe beneath a temporary lean-to, Chakotay and Kim used the tools the ensign had taken from the Phrama stable to build a sturdy log cabin. Additions to this humble dwelling followed. A bedstead, to keep the frail Paris from the cold drafts of the night floor. A hearth, for heating water and cooking foods. A stretching post, for drying the skins of the animals they ate.   
  
Chakotay and Kim did not discuss the hope of rescue. They both knew that their relocation into the mountains would add time to any search effort. In the meantime, their first duty was survival. And, slowly but surely, in a myriad of little ways, they transformed their meager camp into a home. They were unlikely housemates, to be sure. But their diverse talents soon allowed niches, a natural division of labor, to form. Kim watched over Paris. The lieutenant would accept food and water, and even open unfocused blue eyes at his friend's gentle word or touch. But he whimpered when they wrapped bindings around his ribs or checked his fading bruises and burns. His breathing was still pained and labored. Coughs relentlessly assailed him whenever he moved. Often his own hand scrubbed against his aching chest, a frantic, palsied, repetitive motion, as if he could rub out the disease that devoured his lungs. And despite Kim's constant attention and encouragement, Paris had not spoken since the first night the Phrama had returned him. Except in his infrequent and obviously violent dreams, when he called Kes's name.   
  
The cabin and the chores that went with it took up the rest of Kim's time. He chopped wood from the ample forest, drew water, and searched for edible plants. While Kim stayed close to Paris and the cabin, Chakotay took short trips of two and three days, exploring the surrounding country, hunting, and trapping. The circles he made around their shelter also served as a patrol of sorts, as he constantly kept guard against any Phrama or other predators. If one of them had to stay with the cabin, it was logical for Kim to do so. Paris's condition was far more likely to improve if Kim, his oldest and closest friend on Voyager, were near. Besides, Chakotay was born for a measure of solitude and independence, and their circumstances seemed far less likely to suffocate him when he slept beneath the open sky.   
  
The most subtle changes offered the most tangible evidence of the passing of time. Kim took to tying his hair back with an animal-skin thong to keep the long strands out of his eyes. A ginger-colored beard framed Paris's sunken, pale face. Chakotay's leggings pulled tightly across thighs increasingly disfigured with new muscles from hours on a beast too wide for a Human's comfort.   
  
The days passed.

* * *

The door chime sounded, and a delicate voice welcomed the last visitor into the room. Janeway approached somberly. She made it clear by her demeanor that she relinquished command in Kes's quarters. She would follow the Ocampa's lead. Like the others sitting in a semi-circle on the floor, by Kes's invitation, she knew that the diminutive woman-child was the only hope for the three men now abandoned to the planet's winter season. When Kes had told her that she wished to pursue this link, Janeway had stressed that it was her decision. When the Ocampa confirmed that she was sure, Janeway announced her complete, and grateful, support. And offered any help that she might give.   
  
Taking a deep breath, the captain lowered herself to join the others, cross-legged. Kes was bent forward, her eyes closed, concentrating. They sat very still for some time in throttled, uncertain anticipation. When she finally raised her head, her eyes glittered like a medium channeling some faraway dimension. The other three exchanged wide-eyed looks, awed spectators at this seance.   
  
With a glance from Kes, Neelix began. They had all agreed on a degree of formality, to help them meet the uncomfortable, intimate demands of the event. He cleared his throat nervously. "I am Neelix, obviously, I mean you all know that. But I have come here tonight to represent Thomas Eugene Paris. My friend. You all know how much we have been through, Tom and I. Our misunderstandings, our adventure on "Planet Hell," even my journalistic inquiry into his abduction by the Kazon." He chuckled without humility, distracted by his own memories. "I have been jealous of him, disappointed by him, and angry at him. That is all in the past. I know the man he is. Now I count him as one of my closest friends. I want him back." He dropped his eyes, seemingly fascinated with the pattern of the fabric of his slacks. "I have brought the original program of Sandrine's, the program we've all copied. This is him. The world he made for all of us, the world where he was at home, the world where we have so many memories with him. This represents Tom to me." He placed the crystal at Kes's feet.   
  
She picked it up tenderly, as she would the hand of the injured man.   
  
They gave her the time she needed. After setting it back on the floor, she looked to B'Elanna Torres. The engineer shifted uncomfortably, her emotions raw upon her expressive face. "I am B'Elanna Torres. I am here to represent Chakotay, my former captain and present first officer. He has been my friend, my teacher, and my mentor. He was and is the only family I have known for many years, not because he had to be, but because he chose to be." She stared intently at the objects in her lap. "I could not trust or respect anyone more than I do Chakotay. He is a man..." A long pause "... a man of honor. To represent Chakotay, I offer his medicine bundle. It was always with him, giving him strength, reminding him of his people. If anything is a window into his soul, this is it." Torres handed the bundle to Kes, who held it reverently. For a moment the honest, intent expression reminded the engineer of the soulful gaze of its owner, and she looked away.   
  
Ending the pained silence, the captain spoke. "I am Kathryn Janeway. One of the brightest aspects of life on Voyager has been growing to know a young officer I hand-picked without ever meeting personally, Harry Kim. I knew I had chosen the best, but even so he exceeded every expectation I had of him, as an officer and a person. He has a brilliant, gifted mind and a heart far wiser than his years. Gentle, giving, sincere. I wish I had heard him play. His mother loved his music so much. That's why I am bringing you his clarinet, Kes. I know he practiced every day, and that music was one of the many gifts he brought with him to our ship. This symbolizes the heart, as well as the mind." Kes accepted the instrument gratefully, holding it skillfully as if she were born to play it. The implications of such ease chilled Janeway.   
  
Kes spoke kindly with only a hint of distraction. "Thank you, all of you, for sharing these with me. And for sharing your feelings, your ties to these men. I am trying to feed off of your relationships and draw closer to them through you. And I will honor these things, their things, with all my heart. Captain Janeway has agreed to allow me access to their quarters. If I go to any of them, I will contact the appropriate one of you to stand in their behalf. I don't want to invade their privacy, I just want to strengthen my link with them." Her eyes were growing more other-worldly with each moment. "Thank you so much. May... I be alone now?"   
  
"Of course," Janeway agreed, and rose to leave. Torres practically bolted from the room without comment. The captain started to call to her in the hallway and offer the engineer a cup of coffee and a sympathetic ear, but one look at Torres convinced Janeway to let her go alone.   
  
Neelix lingered at her doorway, concerned. "Are you gonna be okay, sweetie?"   
  
"Yes, thank you. Thank you for helping me. I know you disapprove."   
  
"I'm trying."   
  
"I know."   
  
"May I look in on you later?"   
  
"Of course, Neelix. I'll see you in a little while."   
  
"Yes, yes... in a little while. I'll see you then." The door slid closed while he was still muttering to himself.   
  
When he returned an hour later, he found Kes curled on the floor like a wounded animal, arms wrapped around her sides, asleep. He crept to her side to convince himself that she was resting easily. He caught the faint aroma of peanut butter.   
  
He left her where she lay, draping a blanket from her bed over her still form as he exited. He dropped the spredendron bloom he had brought from the hydroponics bay beside her, to tell her that he had been there. Then he returned to his quarters to worry.

* * *

Despite the warmth of the cabin's fire, the night cold still required bundling in clothes, blankets, and skins. So morning found Kim folding away the layers that covered Paris, trying to make him more comfortable. As always when he moved around the lieutenant, he spoke quietly about whatever came to mind. He sometimes doubted Paris could hear him but he could not stand to act like the tortured man was already dead. If Paris were aware, at least he would know that he was with a friend.   
  
"Harry?" The rusty croak caught Kim by surprise. He stared at the still, pliant form, uncertain if he had imagined the whisper.   
  
"Tom?" He slipped an arm beneath the blond head and offered him water. "Hey, welcome back. I was getting tired of talking to myself."   
  
Blue eyes opened slowly, searched, finally focused on the ensign. He took a breath to speak and gasped, his features contorting. "It hurts." The tone was incredulous, like he was discovering the fact for the first time. "I-" He dissolved in a harsh fit of coughing and then wilted in the ensign's embrace.   
  
Kim winced and swallowed. "I know it hurts, Tom, but we're going to get you through this. A Phrama healer showed me some herbs to use for pain. I'll make you a tea, okay? Stay with me now." He slowly disentangled himself and reached for the preparations.   
  
Paris met his eyes and gave him a short nod of thanks. "Where?" It was all he could manage. Kim understood.   
  
"In the mountains. We escaped from Renoja and made it out here."   
  
"Chakotay?"   
  
"He's fine. He'll be back in a little while."   
  
Wrapping an arm snugly around his chest, Paris shifted a bit on the crude bedstead. "You... made this?"   
  
"Yeah, we built the whole cabin. Don't worry, we should be safe. It turns out that the Phrama have this taboo against the mountains. They can't grow their crops up here, so they think it's cursed. And they've developed a whole mythology about the creatures that live out here, almost like a 'the world is flat' kind of thing. I think we'll be safe." He pressed green leaves into a wooden cup. "Do... do you remember anything since you've been back with us?"   
  
He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration as well as pain. "It's a blur." Clearing his throat, he tried for a steadier voice. "Mixed up... memories..."   
  
"Don't worry about it, Tom. You need your strength -"   
  
"Kes? Is... is she here? I... remember... what?" Confusion agitated him.   
  
Kim dipped warm water from the pot that hung over the fire. "Uh, you seem to be dreaming about her. You've said her name while you were unconscious." He looked distinctly uncomfortable, unsure how to proceed. This was not the time to chide Paris for forbidden erotic fantasies.   
  
The blue eyes grew wider as he sipped from the cup Kim held. He swallowed and shook his head. He could tell what the blushing ensign was thinking, and it was all wrong. That issue had been settled long ago. "Thought... I saw her."   
  
"Not since Voyager, Tom." A new fear chilled Kim, and he unconsciously gripped his fallen comrade more tightly. The same thought struck Paris as well. Terror shone nakedly on his face.   
  
"My mind?" His breathing quickened and the coughing returned.   
  
Holding his head as the slender frame shook, Kim spoke steadily, far more confident in tone than he felt. "It's all right. You're not losing your mind, Tom. They gave you drugs, they hurt you - you're memory's playing tricks, that's all. You're fighting this really well. Hold on. It's okay."   
  
The fit rode the abused body back into unconsciousness.   
  
Kim stared at him for a long time, holding the cup of herbal tea that cooled uselessly in his hand. Conflicting emotions exhausted him. Eventually, though, he came to a practical conclusion. /He was awake again. He talked. That means he's better than he was. That's what's important. I'll help him straighten out his memories and hallucinations later. The key now is that he's better./   
  
/And I won't rest until he's well./   
  
But the old woman's descriptions of a slow death from the disease haunted him and tainted his hopes. Of course her experience was limited to Phrama victims, who entered the ordeal malnourished and exhausted and then endured abuse after infection. Perhaps Paris's Human physiology, his prior health, his care since the guards returned him to his fellow officers, maybe all of the factors would work in his behalf.   
  
But the fear never quite left Kim, even in the small moments of triumph.   
  
It was one of the many subjects that Kim and Chakotay did not discuss.

* * *

"Thought... you were... a vegetarian."   
  
Chakotay shrugged pragmatically. "Survival seemed an attractive alternative. I still honor life." He glared at the navigation officer in mock sternness. "I trust that the keepers of the game agree that yours is worth sustaining. With protein."   
  
"Keepers?" He sipped the stew without aid, propped up in bed. It was a small achievement for which he had fought for some time. It represented a measure of independence.   
  
"My people believe that there are spirits that allow the hunt -"   
  
A long-fingered hand waved away the explanation. "Sorry... I asked." Rolled eyes communicated what the husky voice could not. Chakotay snorted and mumbled something Paris could not understand as he rose from his stump-perch before the fire. His movements were stiff and awkward. Sometimes, after riding for several days, he could scarcely walk when he returned. Reaching for the branch he used as a walking-stick, he wordlessly shuffled into the twilight. The door closed behind him as he went to tend the two wallibeves.   
  
Kim, cross-legged on the floor with his own bowl of stew, shook his head mutely at the two. Their attempts at humor danced on the edge of confrontation. Sometimes he could barely distinguish when words were kind or cruel, interaction wry or angry. At times the three functioned well in their artificially-intimate accommodations, but then there were moments when he could not shake the genuine uncomfortableness that settled on them. He knew that Chakotay sensed it, too. That explained why, when the Amerindian was not away trapping, he often spent his evenings outside, tending to the wallibeves, watching the sunset, doing whatever it was that Chakotay did.   
  
And Kim let him. A sigh of frustration. Kim felt that he should do something, but he could not imagine what it was. The Paris-Chakotay mix was a volatile one, and he sat directly in the middle. Innocent. Bewildered. But an accomplice nonetheless, as he did nothing to ease the situation.   
  
Irritation did not last. Chastening thoughts vanished as he watched Paris set his bowl on the ground and swiftly roll away from it in a fetal position, his face suddenly ashen. Eyes closed, throat forcing difficult swallows, the lieutenant fought the nausea that any food triggered. If he were lucky, his quick breaths would not begin the cycle of coughing again. Ever so quietly, Kim took the abandoned bowl and his own and began to tidy the small cabin, one eye, as always, on Paris.   
  
This wave seemed to last longer than most. Kim cleaned, straightened, and rearranged the contents of the log house several times over while waiting for Paris to straighten and drift into sleep. But the emaciated frame remained tautly curved, slightly trembling. Finally he gave in and circled the small bed to kneel by his friend's face.   
  
His face was twisted. He had shoved his fist over his mouth. His cheeks were wet. Sensing Kim there he opened his eyes and stared.   
  
"Tom?" He thought better of the 'are you okay?' Clearly Paris was not.   
  
"What?" A harsh whisper, seething with unreleased emotion. "What do... you want?" Short breaths through his clenched teeth. "Want me... to say... it'll be fine?" A staccato bark, a pathetic imitation of a laugh. "I don't... think it... will. I... hurt, Harry... You have to... do everything for me." He shuddered, as if thinking about his condition were too dreadful to contemplate. "I can't... get away. Remember... Fear?"   
  
Kim nodded silently. After the computer-generated character Fear had released him as hostage, he had battled terrible nightmares for several nights. Paris had finally dragged him to Sandrine's and coaxed the details from him. He had slept after that cathartic pool session, after telling the lieutenant everything about the encounter. Everything. Even... /I see where he's going with this,/ Kim realized grimly.   
  
"You didn't want... to be old... where you couldn't... take care of... self."   
  
This had to stop. "Tom, this isn't that same thing. Please stop this." His own voice sounded sterner than he had anticipated. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "You're hurt, but you are getting better. Soon you won't need anything at all. And I'm not a stranger, I'm your friend. I want to help you, I don't have to."   
  
If it were possible, Paris looked even more miserable. "I know... but I... hate being... helpless. I'm stuck... losing my mind." He waved Kim away with his hand, burying his face in his other arm. Muffled words. "I can't... I'm so scared... Please just... give me some... time."   
  
Kim desperately wanted to say something, but he did not dare. Instead he slipped around the bed and to the door.   
  
"But... don't leave me."   
  
The whispered sob acknowledging his contradictory needs for privacy and comfort wrenched Kim's heart. He could hardly keep from crying himself. "I won't leave you, Tom. I'm just outside the door. I'm not going anywhere." At the nod from the arm-encircled head, he stepped outside.   
  
Chakotay sat on a small stack of wood, gazing into the sunset, knuckles digging deep lines into his thighs as his fists rubbed back and forth absently. Kim sank down to the grass beside him. The commander noted his presence but did not speak. Kim found himself feeling a surge of irrational anger at this stoic and silent man. /You don't know what it's like. You don't understand what's happening to him./   
  
Kim sat with Chakotay well into the night.   
  
Just thinking.

* * *

"A cheese omelet with green peppers, tomatoes, and sour cream." Kim tilted his head at the familiar sounds outside, knowing they announced Chakotay's return from the hunt. That would mean meat, and skins, and a return to the two-man rotation of night watch and Paris observation. A brief respite for both the ensign and the commander from being the only man performing their respective tasks.   
  
"No, no. Peanut butter and jelly... on white bread."   
  
Kim lay on furs on the floor, his feet propped up on the rock hearth, rag-wrapped toes wiggling before the fire's pleasant heat. On his side in the bed, Paris wagged a knowing finger at him. "No crusts."   
  
The cabin door opened to reveal Chakotay, his hair still dripping from the routine bath he took in the creek to clean away the smells of sweat and blood and wallibeve before entering the small dwelling.   
  
"And that's grape jelly... not strawberry or peach." Paris added raspily.   
  
Kim rolled away to make room for the commander to warm himself. Chakotay knelt before the flames reverently as a believer beholds an altar. "Corn, roasted over an open fire. And mushroom soup." He added his voice to their long-running discussion of most-desired foods without missing a beat. Exhaustion had not dulled his mood.   
  
The ensign was thumbing through their ragged items of clothing, looking for a suitable jacket in which to help with the catch. "How many?"   
  
Chakotay shook his head. "Taken care of. I hung them in the springhouse." Legs stretched tentatively, lifting him shakily to sit on the stump-chair. He rested his walking-stick beside him. "I'll skin them tomorrow morning." Quiet nods. His fingers teased the last drops from his hair, and he played with the ever-longer silver strands distractedly. "How are things here?"   
  
"We sent... the dancing girls... home an hour ago... The scenery was beautiful... wish you'd been here." Wit aside, Paris's voice had regained the harsh, bitter undertone that alternately angered and frightened Kim. His mood, like his health, varied minute by minute. The commander's return had triggered another shift. The sentence ended with a quiet cough.   
  
Chakotay seemed to note the subtle change, the edge of submerged desperation. He did not rise to the bait. He merely snorted and continued to stare at the fire. The muscles in Kim's stomach tightened instinctively.   
  
"Hot tea?" Chakotay nodded and accepted a steaming wooden cupful, sniffing the bitterroot concoction appreciatively.   
  
"You've done wonders finding the tasty local plant life." The drink burned his tongue and he gulped a mouthful of air to cool it. Then he ducked out of the blanket-pouch strapped to his back and withdrew a bundle of smooth skins. Disentangling the folds of soft hide, Chakotay sought Kim's eyes and, once meeting them, held them with deliberate determination. /Stand with me on this one. Help me. You struggle with this every hour, and I know you think I've escaped dealing with it, but I recognize the problem. I am trying to make things better./   
  
His head still turned toward Kim, away from Paris, he spoke with concentrated casualness. "So, Mister Paris, I've been thinking. We need a record of what has happened, what is happening. To keep track of the days, to trace our steps, to make our report when we return to Voyager." Kim's eyes widened. This was the first time he had heard the commander mention their ship since they had escaped Renoja. Chakotay had silently tried to balance an implied faith in their future rescue with a practical dedication to easing their lives in the present. This departure was a planned, calculated attempt to help Paris's peace of mind. "So I made a notebook of sorts. Of skin. The berry-dye can serve as ink. It may be crude, but I think you can handwrite a useful log." He turned, half-rose, and handed his handiwork to the lieutenant. "You can start tomorrow."   
  
The cabin fell silent. Kim's mind raced, appreciating the thought this move reflected. /Yes, this gives him something to do, a tangible contribution he can work on at his own pace./ He looked at his commander with a sheepish sense of awe, and a degree of regret for underestimating Chakotay's sensitivity and understanding.   
  
"Great," Paris whispered. He started to laugh, then coughed sharply. Clearing his throat, his smile twisted into something ugly. "Keep me occupied... I'll be less of a pain, then... huh?" He pulled at his beard, his emaciated frame wound up with furious emotion. "Do you think... I'm so sick I don't... don't see? I mean... what's the point?" Wild eyes shot from Chakotay to Kim, as if he blamed his friend for his tacit consent to the order. "We're never getting back." The commander opened his mouth to speak but Paris drowned his attempt. "Don't... patronize me, Chakotay... I don't want your pity." The words left him breathless. A fist began rubbing his chest again jerkily, a subconscious return to the wounded reflex of weeks earlier. Kim held his breath.   
  
Turned fully toward the lieutenant now, Chakotay met his eyes and shocked Paris with the gentleness of his voice. "What do you want?" His arms spread questioningly.   
  
The blue eyes seemed confused, as if the soul behind them had not asked that particular question in some time. But the sharp tongue beat the mind to an answer. "For you to... leave me alone." Kim expelled the breath he had held in a low moan. But he stood paralyzed, unable to enter the tragic scene the commander and lieutenant were performing.   
  
In painfully slow motion, Chakotay rose to his feet. As he stumbled around the stump awkwardly with his walking-stick, a small pouch fell from his jacket to the floor. He bent to pick it up and stared at it as if seeing it for the first time. Then it dawned on him, and he grunted in acknowledgment. Eyes focused self-consciously on the floor, he held it out to Kim behind him. "My father taught me to make them, not play them. I thought you might figure it out. It has a beautiful sound... and I heard you were good."   
  
Without waiting for Kim's response he lumbered to the door. Mumbled words about the need for skinning animals died on the wind that entered as he left.   
  
Paris watched him go, curiously detached from the exit. Still silent, shocked by his own words, he turned to his friend in disorientation.   
  
Kim was on his knees before the fire, holding in his hands a beautifully carved wooden recorder. He looked up, his eyes bright and swimming, and his shoulders sagged.   
  
Then he turned his face away.

* * *

Neelix served one last piece of quiche before untying his apron. He worried when Kes did not come to the mess hall for breakfast. They did not talk like they did before the landing party left, to be sure, but even when she seemed faraway and preoccupied, she still came. The gesture was not an empty one. Each quiet meal reminded him that she remembered him. Each visit contained a promise that, one day, their life together would resume normalcy. The morale officer was trying to cope with being, at times, a mere habit. He wrung every bit of hope from it that he could. But now breakfast had passed and Kes was nowhere to be found. He trotted past crew members, dodging those standing with drinks and plates, and headed off to find her. Fear of what he would find swelled in his throat.   
  
Her quarters were locked and no one answered his chime. He whispered the security code and the doors slid open. Music, beautiful, alien music, poured out into the hallway. And there, in the middle of her quarters, stood Kes, slender back to the door. Neelix crept in and stood there, watching her.   
  
It took him a minute to figure out what she was doing. She swayed with the music as if she herself were its conduit, with fluid swings and fervent slices of the air. Somewhere, in front of her, in her mind, was an imagined orchestra. She was its conductor. Her outstretched fingers groped for notes and begged for volume and slammed staccatos in precise order. She looked wildly from one phantom section to the next as she nursed melody and harmony from them. She had given herself over to it completely.   
  
He stood there for almost half an hour until the movement ended and she wilted to the floor. She drew her knees up to her forehead and cried out in the silence like an abandoned child. Speaking softly to her, Neelix knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her. "It... always makes me... feel better. But... not now... there's so much hurt... I want to hope... but then it all... crashes down... I want to make it work... I know I can... Why don't I feel better?" He stroked her while she sobbed in broken sentences, holding her tightly until she calmed.   
  
"Kes? Do you want to talk about it?" He breathed the words into her hair softly.   
  
"What was it, Neelix?"   
  
"What was what, sweetie?"   
  
"The music?"   
  
"You don't know? But you just said it always made you feel better. You had every note memorized...."   
  
"No. I had never heard it before, Neelix. Computer, what was the music just played?"   
  
"'MATRIARCH REWOVEN,' FOURTH AND SEVENTH MOVEMENTS, BY BALSUNNI."   
  
She shrugged in his arms. "I don't know it. But there, for a little while, it seemed like an old friend." She sighed. "I'm all right, Neelix. Thanks for checking on me." Delicately, she disentangled herself from his embrace. "I think I'll take a shower now. See you for dinner."   
  
He rose to his feet, stunned, and waited until he heard the water running. He kept expecting her to run to him, ask him for help, and let him inside the world she was seeing, but she never did. So he stumbled from her quarters, perplexed with worry and unanswered questions.   
  
Back in her room, Kes peeked her head through the bathroom archway, assuring herself he was gone. Satisfied that she was alone, she jumped into the furthest edge of her bed where the walls formed a corner and huddled there, trembling, desolated.

* * *

Chakotay left the morning after the logbook incident for another round of hunting and trapping. There was no need; they had plenty to sustain them for a while. But the commander had observed that it could not hurt to stock up on food supplies, now that they had the springhouse in which they could preserve the meat. It was a transparent excuse, but no one stopped him.   
  
Kim spent more time than usual outdoors. He always stayed close enough to guard the cabin and routinely check on Paris. But he threw the heartsick sadness he felt into playing with the recorder Chakotay had made. Music had always been his companion. It took Chakotay to show him how much it could heal him. Once again, he had underestimated his aloof superior. Not again. Never again.   
  
In a self-important way, perhaps Kim also saw his own retreat from the cabin as a subtle punishment for Paris for his cruel treatment of Chakotay. He did not understand why his ailing friend seemed to sabotage his own future so routinely. This was, of course, a pattern that predated his torture. But since Renoja had returned him Paris had cycled through improvements and reversals in mind-spinning speed.   
  
He did not know how he should feel. But the ensign felt an urgency about resolving the issue. Chakotay had built a cabin in which he could not live, and Paris seemed to be fighting his own recovery and all who would help him. The tension was tearing Kim apart. And the changing of the leaves, the possibility of truth in Paris's warning that help would never arrive, the physical changes he saw in himself and the others - it all pointed to the necessity of solving the situation. Of easing it. Of helping it somehow. Or at least of not adding to it. Kim's goals grew increasingly modest as the complexity of their planetbound existence overwhelmed him.   
  
Inside the little cabin, Paris shuddered in his own private hell. The smooth hide pages of the logbook lay open on his lap. A sharpened stick protruded from a wooden bowl beside him. Counting the days, explaining their actions, meant reliving Nett Renoja's cruelties. The solitary cube. Burning, freezing, gasping. The beatings. Worst of all, the injection. Screaming, writhing, humiliating himself. He had thought he was a new Tom Paris. He had thought he had wrestled some dignity from life. But nothing had changed. His father was right. He was a failure.   
  
He had hurt Chakotay badly. And pushed Kim away.   
  
Bare chested, sweating, he wrapped skinny arms around his sore sides. He was so scared.   
  
A cough. A sip of tepid tea, made with the pain-dulling leaves. A deep breath that sent sparks of agony through his once-athletic frame.   
  
He picked up the stick in a trembling fist, paused, and then stabbed at the skin as if he could blot out a lifetime in a pool of berry dye.

* * *

Chakotay's entrance was tentative, reflecting his uncertainty of what he would find. Kim welcomed him meekly, offering him tea and kicking the stump-stool before the fire for him. The two officers listened as the commander told of his catch. The room settled back into silence as Chakotay hungrily devoured Kim's stew. After he finished he positioned himself against the log wall on his sleeping pallet, half-sitting, as was his custom, to spend the night. Kim curled on the floor atop the furs in front of the fire as usual.   
  
"Could I ask you two... some questions?" Paris spoke quietly. Exchanging veiled looks, Chakotay and Kim both nodded. /Here we go,/ Kim thought wretchedly. /This is what I get for not confronting him while Chakotay was gone./   
  
The lieutenant extended a one-armed reach beneath his bed frame and withdrew the bundled logbook as if nothing had ever happened. He flipped it open and thumbed through dye-covered pages, studiously oblivious of the surprised expressions on the faces of his audience. When he found his place, he glanced to them matter-of-factly.   
  
"I am a little foggy... on the details of our escape... What happened?... How did you manage to... distract Renoja and the goon squad?"   
  
This was his apology. Kim shook his head and chuckled quietly beneath his breath. /Will he never cease to amaze me?/   
  
Dimples appeared in Chakotay's shadow-lined visage.   
  
Kim was the first to speak. "The escape is a great story. We needed mounts and tools, as well as a distraction. Chakotay figured out that we could set fire to the stables, you know the ones next to the labor village, and -"   
  
"You... killed the wallibeves?"   
  
"No, I opened the gates. But that meant that the guards had to put out the blaze and catch all the wallibeves that were running all over the fiefdom." Kim smiled at the memory. "That kept them going for a while."   
  
Chakotay took up the explanation where Kim had ended. "It wasn't guarded, 'cause the workers would never have tried such a thing. Where would they go? If they rode to another fiefdom they'd be returned for a reward. And they wouldn't go to the mountains -"   
  
"Yeah, Harry filled me in on that superstitious stuff - "   
  
"Right. On top of all that, they were in the middle of the final harvest of the season. They couldn't afford to drop everything for a thorough search. So it seemed to be the best plan."   
  
Paris nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense... Thanks."   
  
The dusk bled into night as the three recreated the days, speaking frankly about their flight and the eventual homesteading in the mountains. Eventually an exhausted Chakotay drew blankets around him and dozed. Paris followed soon after. When Chakotay was home, Kim would maintain a quiet watch into the night, then wake the commander before dawn and sleep himself. Following this tradition, Kim settled himself down for a relaxing few hours of contemplative silence. It was not long, however, before he availed himself of the log.   
  
He read Paris's critical, detailed account of his own torture.   
  
He had never asked. Paris had never offered to tell.   
  
He replaced the book silently.   
  
And when dawn came, he woke Chakotay and slept.   
  
He never spoke of reading the account.   
  
Neither did Chakotay.

* * *

"Could I see you out here for a minute?"   
  
Chakotay had been outside for seemingly hours after eating stew late that afternoon with Kim and Paris. Paris did not know what he was doing, but he figured it was something deep, sober, and introspective - in short, something he wanted no part of. But the commander's summons of Kim from the cabin rankled the lieutenant. He felt like a small child forced to go to bed while the adults entertained a party. Excluded. Forgotten. Curious.   
  
It was not that he was idle. After his long, hard work on the log updating it to the present, he was rewarded with more long, hard work. But as much as he complained about being drafted as the landing party's tailor, he had to admit that the more he kept busy the better he felt. He remained in the sturdy little bed. But he could take small steps in the cabin unaided now, and required fewer catnaps during the day to maintain his strength. The pain still stabbed him with every breath, but the simple tasks served as distractions. Propped up and wrapped in fur, he forced himself to continue weaving the bone needle Kim had made in and out of the smooth skin Chakotay had cut. Soon they would all three appear like the buckskinned pioneers of old. An open shirt for Kim, that he could unlace and open in the daytime heat. Wide leggings for Chakotay to move with him as he rode. Even a vest for himself, still furred, to insulate his vulnerable chest.   
  
Minutes later Kim returned, a small, strange grin on his broad face. "Hey, uh, how're you feeling?"   
Paris narrowed his eyes. Despite his life-threatening, agonizing condition - or perhaps because of it - that was a question Kim and Chakotay never asked him. Something was definitely afoot. "What's up, Harry?"   
  
"Would you like to take a little walk?"   
  
That floored Paris. He had not stepped outside the cabin door since Chakotay had first carried him inside its walls. Shuffling around the place a bit was the extent of his freedom. He had endured the many humiliating implications of his invalid status, although Kim had always tried to offer him every dignity possible. The empathetic ensign would never be cruel. The question, the invitation, was a serious one.   
  
He answered by swinging spindly legs onto the floor. Smiling broadly now, Kim helped to wrap him thickly in furs. Paris hurried in silence, afraid that any hesitation or query would break this marvelous spell, this promise of activity and experience. When he was finally bundled, Kim slipped behind him and gently grasped both elbows, signaling that he would help support Paris when he grew tired. Together the two friends opened the cabin door and Paris took his first trembling, small steps outside.   
  
There in the clearing, beneath an impossibly clear sky, sat Chakotay. He had kindled a roaring fire and surrounded it with three pallets. Paris smiled at the inviting scene.   
  
"We thought you might like to see this," Kim whispered in his ear, and nodded upward. Paris tilted back his head, swaying in Kim's firm hold. The black night sky was streaked with stars, like a glowing watercolor running across space.   
  
"Wha... what?"   
  
"Meteor shower."   
  
His throat worked, and tears welled up in his pale eyes. "Aw, Harry..."   
  
"I know," Kim agreed, and released his hold on Paris's elbow long enough to pat him gently on the back.   
  
They stood that way for several seconds, looking up at the sky, until Kim grew aware of Paris shivering against him. "Let's get you over there next to the fire, okay?" The lieutenant seemed to return to reality and nodded. Together the two walked him over to the nearest pallet. As Kim eased him to the ground, Chakotay produced a heavy fur to cover him. Paris reclined there, warmed by the fire, and stared up at the sky.   
  
"Thank you... it's incredible." He turned to meet the eyes of the commander and ensign in turn. "Thank you."   
  
They both nodded happily and then returned to gazing themselves. It was an intimate experience to share, as these three stranded starmen looked up to the space where they belonged. The majesty, the beauty of it all, overwhelmed them. Kim eventually picked up the recorder and played. A shy grin communicated Chakotay's surprise and pleasure at the music, and after a while the commander closed his eyes and pressed his palms to the ground in meditation. Paris lay quietly, listening to Kim's melodies and the fire's steady crackle. The meteors seemed to dance for his entertainment, making him in turn feel incredibly powerful and devastatingly small, hopeful and bereaved.   
  
The three solitary figures remained around the fire for several hours. They were together in peace, but they were also quite alone - Chakotay with his thoughts, Kim with his music, and Paris with the sky.

* * *

The three assembled in sickbay were unlikely allies. Nonetheless, the Doctor, Neelix, and Tuvok were united by their concern for the beautiful young Ocampa who had changed each of their lives. There was a guilt, a secrecy, an underground feeling to their meeting, since they knew that Kes had made up her mind to pursue the telepathic link with the landing party and Janeway had backed her decision. It was this choice that they questioned.   
  
"It's getting worse." Neelix began frantically. "Sometimes she does things as if she's in a trance, and loses all sense of time. And it's one of their activities, not hers. She does things she's never done before like she's done them all her life. I don't understand -"   
  
"I fear that she will lose her sense of self. The longer she is immersed in this link, the harder it will be to reestablish her own identity. She may become lost in the sea of telepathic input, without the anchor of self-awareness." The Doctor leaned over a nearby console, stricken.   
  
Neelix practically danced on the balls of his feet, propelled by nervous energy. "And, and what would happen then? Mister Vulcan, what would happen if what he says is true?"   
  
"I cannot say. It is possible, however, that her sanity might be compromised."   
  
"What does that mean? That she would lose her mind?"   
  
Tuvok merely laced his fingers together and steepled his index fingers in thought.   
  
"Well, what can we do then? The captain is adamant that we respect Kes's decision. If she didn't realize -"   
  
"The captain was aware of the situation." Tuvok's voice was unemotional as only a Vulcan's could be.   
  
"And? You let her go ahead -"   
  
"I did not 'let' the captain do anything. Captain Janeway makes her own decisions. She is an admirable captain and I respect her abilities."   
  
"But obviously you don't agree with this decision..." The Talaxian prompted.   
  
"I do not."   
  
The admission pried from Tuvok silenced them all for a time. Then Neelix tried once more. "Doctor, isn't there something you can do to override them?"   
  
He scowled in indignation. "Mister Neelix, if there were something I could do, I would not be here listening to you. I would be doing it. But I have voiced and logged my reservations regarding this course of events. That is all I can do at present."   
  
"So where does that leave us?"   
  
"Waiting."

* * *

Paris was worse. There was blood when he coughed and an unmistakable gurgling gasp accompanying each breath. He stayed still now, desperately trying not to aggravate the sickness that tore apart his lungs. At times he could stomach little food. The pain stole his sleep. His weakness grew with each hour, even as he felt his sanity threatening to desert him. Wrapped in furs on the bed of the darkened cabin, he awoke once in panic, believing he was again in Llilegrough's solitary cube. It was all Kim could do to calm him and then brace him as he rode out the resulting fit of smothering coughs. And, again, the ensign discreetly overlooked the tears of helplessness and frustration that Paris quietly shed, pale face turned toward the log walls.   
  
This morning Kim worked about quietly, trying not to disturb his friend. Chakotay had been hunting for two days and might not be back for several more. Although the ensign and commander did not often talk a great deal, at least he was company, staring intensely into the fire next to his officers or feeding it with great frost-kissed logs. The last few days weighed heavily on Kim. He feared for Paris. The loneliness of the monotonous hours, listening only to the painful breaths and whistling wind, wore on his nerves. Over and over again he looked at the expressive face framed in fur, twisted in misery both in sleep and in consciousness. He fought with his doubts and his fears for his friend, for their future. Luckily there were enough chores to finish and needs to anticipate to keep him occupied, physically at least, during the daylight hours.   
  
As he brought in an armful of wood, hastily shutting the door against the chilling draft, Paris spoke. Had the fire crackled or an animal howled at that instant, Kim would not have heard the faint whisper. But he did.   
  
"Talk to me... Harry." Paris seemed exhausted by the effort. His eyes pleaded with his friend, fixed on him like the one chance at survival that he truly was.   
  
"Sure thing!" Adding the logs to the blaze, he brought a cup of water to Paris and slipped an arm beneath the slender shoulders to support him while he drank. Easing him back into the furs, Kim then seated himself on the stump beside the fire. Now that Paris was awake and lucid, Kim drew a blank. He asked sheepishly, "What do you want me talk about?"   
  
Paris forced a smile, an anemic shadow of his old cavalier cockiness. "You never told me... about when you... saw Earth again... Mysterious." Rapid breaths, recovering from the exertion. Keen eyes cutting through the haze of pain.   
  
Kim was taken off guard. He thought for a moment. Then it registered. "You mean the alternate timeline?" Paris nodded. "Okay, but you have to try a little soup. Do we have a deal?" The lieutenant shook his head uncertainly. "Tom, you've got to try to eat something. You have to keep up your strength so you can fight this. C'mon, just a little." His trump card. "For me?"   
  
Paris rolled his eyes. "For you." He sighed the words to his crewmate, hands half-raised in defeat.   
"That's more like it." Kim turned to place the iron pot on the wooden arm above the fire. "It'll take it a minute to get good and hot." He swiveled back to face Paris and sighed. "I didn't mean to keep the whole thing a mystery. It was so incredible. I'd never been on Voyager - neither had you. It was as if life had just kept on, like it would have if we hadn't gone on this mission. I was going to marry Libby." He looked away from Paris, focusing on some scene only he could see. "Just to see her again, touch her, hear her voice... in one sense it let me say good-bye but, in another... it made her even closer to me. And so strange to know what I could've had. What I was missing... " He shook himself in a chastising way. /This isn't what Tom needs./ He let the silence stretch for a moment and distance the two of them from his words as he grasped the pot with rag-clothed hands and set it down to cool. He chose a bowl and poured Paris's soup. Kicking the stump alongside the bed, he gently helped Paris sit up and rearranged the supporting furs around him. "You okay there?" Paris shifted slightly and appeared to relax, nodding.   
  
"Sorry, Harry," he whispered. The ensign lifted his eyebrow questioningly. Paris swallowed and tried again. "'Bout Libby."   
  
"Oh, I didn't mean to spill all that. I'm okay, really. " He lifted the bowl to Paris's lips. The lieutenant raised his hands to balance it and took a sip. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of warmth as it trailed down his ravaged throat. He made a pleased sound, a low moan of satisfaction. Kim smiled.   
  
"Anyway, you were there. I found you. You saved my life. More than once. You were my friend in that timeline, too." Another swallow and a grateful smile.   
  
"I was... released?"   
  
"Yeah, you'd been out of the penal colony for a while. Playing pool mostly, it seemed like. You looked pretty... casual. Not as much of a beard as you have now, though."   
  
Paris chuckled at the jab and fingered his ginger beard, its thickness another testament to the time that had passed on this planet. The realization sent him again into silence.   
  
A sip of soup. Observing his mood, desperate not to let it sink any further because of his own inept comments, Kim started again. "I stuck out like such a sore thumb. I didn't quite fit in with your, um... scene." Kim shook his head at the memory. "Let's just say you weren't instantly convinced of my situation." Another swallow.   
  
Instantly Paris's calm face, blushed with the first color to enter the sunken cheeks in days, grimaced in unexpected agony. He clutched Kim's arm with desperate strength. The bowl fell to the floor and Kim grabbed Paris, instinctively helping him as he lurched toward the side of the bed. Leaning his head over its edge Paris retched and heaved. Kim could hardly hold him as his light frame shuddered and spasmed. Then the coughing followed. Kim reached for one of the many rags, tattered remnants of the shirt Chakotay wore in the labor camp, and held it to Paris's lips. It grew wet and crimson with each cough.   
  
"Easy, easy. I've got you. It's okay, Tom. Easy now." Quiet words, mingling with ragged sobs. The fit lasted for several minutes, a lifetime in Kim's estimation. He gently rubbed the back that ached so cruelly and rocked the body he held, trying to calm his friend. Each moment brought only the slightest relief. As the breaths slowed he turned Paris and carefully lowered him into the furs. Paris's eyes were squeezed shut. He concentrated on breathing. Finally certain that the fit had passed, Kim quietly began cleaning the spilled soup and vomit from the floor. His heart ached. Paris had weathered so many bad turns - he had even survived their flight so soon after his torture - and had seemed to be growing stronger each day. All of that progress, now lost with the season. The night in the valley watching the meteor shower appeared like the most fanciful imagination.   
  
"S... sorry." The quiet syllables shocked Kim from his thoughts. Paris, unmoving, his features wreathed with lines that mocked his age, watched him with infinitely sad eyes. He dropped them to the floor where Kim knelt. "Mess."   
  
Kim shook his head vehemently. "No! You didn't want to eat. I shouldn't have forced you to. I'm sorry, Tom." Paris close his eyes and nodded once, acknowledging the younger man, thanking him. Silence, save for Paris's short, shallow breaths, settled on the cabin. Minutes passed.   
  
Staring again into his own private vision, Kim spoke. "I haven't told you this before now. It just seemed... I don't know, weird. Back when I was on Earth, you gave your life so that I could return to this timeline. Your shuttle was destroyed, and you knew it would be. I didn't mean for it to happen. But you did it anyway." He thought of the infinite relief he felt, seeing Paris at the helm when he beamed back aboard Voyager after that experience. His voice changed, growing more forceful, fueled by the frustration welling up inside him. "I won't let you do it this time, Tom. I'm gonna be there every step of the way. I know you think of me as some kid brother that always needs protection, but I'm an adult. And I'm strong. I'll help you fight this any way I know how. You've saved me before. Well, I can take care of you, too." He trembled with the force of his conviction, running his fingers through his long hair. "Just hold on. I won't let you leave me again." Pulling himself back to the situation at hand, he refocused on the cabin, the fire, the floor. He turned to Paris.   
  
The lieutenant was sleeping.

* * *

Kes was in the mess hall, staring dully into nothingness as her hot tea grew tepid, when she slumped forward. The supper rush had already passed, and few crew members still remained to talk and snack. No one was near enough to catch the tiny frame as it slid forward and then sideways, inertly to the floor. Hearing his name called, Neelix emerged from his pot-scouring to find a small huddle around his unconscious companion. In moments he had scooped her into his arms and was trotting down the hall toward sickbay.   
  
The prognosis was exhaustion. The Doctor eventually indulged her request and allowed her to return to her quarters to rest. But there were few concrete changes to make; she had already relinquished her work in the sickbay and her various tasks on board. There was nothing else, nothing physical, to do to lighten her load.   
  
And despite the concern from Neelix, the Doctor, and Tuvok, she would not relinquish the precious pain of Tom Paris.

* * *

The easy autumn they had known erupted into winter with little warning. Ominous frosts and foreboding winds changed the landscape, making even the wearily familiar seem threatening. They could not escape the upcoming changes, as clearly as the cabin drafts shrieked in the night. Chakotay felt a new sense of urgency as he skinned, drew and quartered. In a short while the hunt would be impossible to continue. The more he could set aside for that lean time, the better.   
  
Fur pulled close around his neck, hair whipping against his face, Chakotay squinted as his eyes surveyed the mountainside. He stretched occasionally and dug his knuckles into the thick, misshapen muscles along his legs that spoke to the hours he had spent riding. The water holes, the grazing grounds, he knew them all now. And he spoke words of respect and thanks to the keepers of the game, the spirits that allowed him the needed kill, each time he took a life.   
  
This day was one like any other. He climbed to a natural overlook to scout the valley for game. But as the rider and mount turned the usual bend of the ledge, Chakotay's wallibeve faltered on a semi-frozen patch of damp rock. Reacting with the surety of experience, he held tightly with his thighs and leaned into the animal, trying to stabilize its center of gravity and calm it. The beast panicked and whirled in disorientation. He urged it away from the edge of the narrow cliff and spoke softly. With several jerky turns and awkward hops, the wallibeve finally came to a breathless standstill. Sighing heavily, Chakotay patted its thick neck. "You had me going there, friend. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, huh?"   
  
Nudging the wallibeve easily with his heels, he tugged on the reins to signal his intention of retreating from the ledge. The animal backed and turned. As it shuffled sideways it encountered another slick spot. It leaped forward, trying to regain its balance, turning in mid-air, twisting Chakotay away from the cliff wall and toward the edge. All he could do was hold onto the beast and swivel with it, loosing all sense of direction in the process.   
  
They landed hard. Chakotay could not distinguish the pain of hitting the cold stone from the pain of the heavy wallibeve falling on top of him. A dull, distant crack echoed in his ears. The sudden agony of his leg breaking stole his breath, then dulled to a pain he had endured before. Not good, but he could manage. He could ride, even crawl if he had to, with a broken leg. Another obstacle, not insurmountable. Unfortunate. Survivable.   
  
The real question was the wallibeve. With his free arm Chakotay stroked the heaving side and cooed soothingly. He tried to lean forward and see for himself, but he was pinned under the massive weight. Sinking back against the wet rock, he tried to relax his tense muscles as much as possible, still patting the beast sympathetically. /What to do now?/   
  
The wallibeve was quiet while stunned, but its panic soon resurfaced with its awareness. Bellowing with the pain of its own injuries, it began to thrash wildly. Chakotay clawed with his free hand, digging his fingers into unyielding stone, as the animal's movements jarred the broken leg. When it had exhausted itself and Chakotay had caught his breath, he resumed his rhythmic stroking. "Please, please, don't do that again," he whispered shakily. "Rest easy now."   
  
The respite was short-lived. The animal, calmer now, instinctively tried to rise to it is feet. It rocked slowly, rolling across the helpless commander, fighting fruitlessly to right itself. Meeting no success, it shifted its weight and tried again. And again. Beneath the wallibeve, Chakotay retched dryly as the broken bones in his leg shifted. When the beast made its last attempt, the injured man registered its changing position. There was nothing he could do. His stomach tightened and his nails left bloody trails on the surface beside him. /Oh father.../   
  
Chakotay cried out as the fallen animal's sturdy frame crushed his knee and then rocked back across the damage it had inflicted. When the wallibeve grew still he carefully curled over on himself, wrapped his arm over his face, and screamed again.

* * *

B'Elanna Torres threw the datapadd against the wall, listening with satisfaction to the sound of various breaking objects. The padd would survive intact, of course. They always did. Torres knew. She had thrown many a datapadd in the last few months.   
  
She was spending her offshift - more appropriately, her sleeping period - as she had ever since Tuvok and Kes had sent the data on the atmosphere. She might as well run simulations. She could not sleep more than two hours or so a night, and only then when her body demanded it and fought off the angry, helpless nightmares. The simulations were still not successful. She was yet to devise an effective means of obtaining sensor readings once a rescue shuttle landed. Trace elements would still render the portable, hand-held tricorders ineffective. To make things worse, she was missing the officer with whom she usually worked on such projects, Harry Kim. She rubbed her bloodshot eyes and moved across her quarters, experience leading her to the usual datapadd crash sight. Without looking down to confirm that it was there, she kicked out. She smiled grimly. A rewarding thump.   
  
She jumped when her communicator whistled. Anyone would expect that she would be asleep. Leaping to her cabinet, she slapped the receiver and barked, "Torres!" /Is there word? Any news?/   
  
"B'Elanna?" The tentative whisper was eerily soft.   
  
"Kes? Is that you?" No answer. Torres was already wrapping herself in her robe and attaching the transmitter. "Kes, can you hear me? Stay there - I'm on my way." She sprinted out the door to the Ocampa's quarters.   
  
Kes was sitting cross-legged, her palms to the floor, beside the bed from which she had evidently tumbled hurriedly. Torres dropped to her knees in front of her, and reached out to cover her hands in her own. The engineer knew that pose. She feared what it meant. In a husky voice she asked, "Kes? Is it Chakotay?"   
  
A silent nod, eyes still closed.   
  
/What has happened? Is he alive? Can you sense him? What's happening, Kes?/ "What can I do?"   
  
"I need your strength. I need you. Help me..."   
  
Torres sensed the urgency without knowing the cause. "Can you walk?"   
  
Blue eyes opened, blinked, focused. In one quick and graceful move she was on her feet. "Take me."   
  
Torres led Kes to Chakotay's quarters and let the two of them inside. With deftness borne of familiarity, she gathered his collection of carved stones. She then knelt with Kes and offered the Ocampa her precious armload. The engineer held her breath, watching Kes resume Chakotay's posture and hold his personal effects.   
  
"He is trapped and badly hurt. He thinks he may die. He's not afraid..." She swallowed and looked Torres in the eye. "He's not afraid of dying, B'Elanna. I don't know what to do. Tom was scared, so scared. He fought. Chakotay is trying to fight, but he isn't afraid." Her eyes, if possible, grew wider. "This is the closest I have ever felt to him. I want to hold on. I can't let him go. I can't let him leave me." She doubled over on herself, eyes squeezed shut, trembling with effort. "No, no, I can't let him -"   
  
Torres knew this was a new step, pushing Kes from merely experiencing events to actually changing them. Could she communicate to them, even influence them on the planet below? Torres's voice was throaty with desperation. "You're right. Don't let him. Don't let him, Kes. He's a fighter. Make him fight."   
  
She nodded and closed her eyes again. Her fingers clenched in fists on the floor. It was almost more than Torres could stand, sitting in Chakotay's quarters, the symbols, the art, the sandalwood musk of a Maquis Captain and a Starfleet First Officer surrounding her, mocking her with his absence. /I'm a fighter, and I can't fight now. The man who means more to me than my own father is dying, slowly, in pain, and I cannot fight./ She could not sit here like this. Turning her back to Kes, she moved to Chakotay's wall. Her fingers traced the paths of the medicine wheel. It was not the first time she had moved the stones across the sacred circle in Chakotay's name.   
  
"Live, Chakotay. Live." The words sounded breathily in a constant rhythm, over and over.

* * *

Stinging sleet. Cold rock. Ice formed around Chakotay where he lay, pinned by the carcass of the wallibeve. How long ago had it died? Minutes? Hours? Days? Time had little meaning now to the shivering man. With his free arm he tugged at his fur cloak, trying to tuck it more tightly around himself. Then he draped his arm across his eyes to shield them from the frozen rain.   
  
It was up to him. He had instructed Kim not to look for him, if he should fail to return from a hunting trip. If he were alive, he would find a way back. If not, there would be nothing Kim could do anyway. At least he would know that Kim and Paris were safe. Now, in retrospect, his choice pleased him. The thought was very comforting, indeed.   
  
Images, fragments of ideas, flashed beneath his squeezed eyelids. If he could dismember the animal, he could move it piece by piece until he was free. /I cannot reach my knife, and, even if I could, such a project one-armed would take... longer than I have./ He could sever his own mutilated leg and, using it as leverage against the animal's weight, free his arm. /Without a knife, without a fire to cauterize the wound... besides, that is macabre./ His people had no taboos against suicide, if it were done honorably, and not to avoid shame. /I don't want to die here, slowly, of exposure... but I have no means of taking my own life while I am still strong. Anyway, I am not ready to give up. Not just yet./ His mind churned hundreds of plans, none of which seemed plausible. After some time he grew afraid that his own senses might be slipping, and with them the ability to reach any decision at all. Dying helplessly in irrational panic frightened him the most. He wanted his honor. He wanted his mind.   
  
So he breathed slowly, cleared his thoughts, and searched for his animal spirit guide. Where, in this dismal, frozen scene, was his oasis? Yes. A sheltered glen. Thick grass. Green trees. And there, before him, the dark-eyed timber wolf, drinking from the brook.   
  
And there, beside the familiar creature, drank a golden-haired Ocampa.   
  
The wolf looked up, directly toward Chakotay. It radiated concern.   
  
And Kes looked up, her face creased with worry.   
  
She seemed as if she belonged in the scene, as if she had always been there, as pure and primal and powerful as the rest of his vision.   
  
But she was not supposed to be there.   
  
He opened his eyes to the sleet, flailing his arm in terrible horror. His worst fears seemed to be confirmed. /I am losing my mind, I am tainting my visions with insane hallucinations, I am lost.../   
  
In anguish he twisted, kicking at the dead wallibeve with his one free leg, kicking, kicking, kicking.   
  
Pinned as he was, Chakotay had no idea how he was positioned in relation to the cliff's edge. He could not know that the wallibeve's body, after its death throes, had perched precariously on the ledge's lip. He kicked with all of his strength, in anguish at his own perceived failure, simply lashing out in the only way he could.   
  
His frantic blows sent the heavy carcass tumbling.   
  
He was free.

* * *

Kim lumbered into the cabin, chilling drizzle following him. He carried the mud-crusted and bloody form of Chakotay over his shoulder. As he moved toward the fire he caught every blanket in arm's length and dragged it along. Paris immediately sat and kicked his feet over the edge of the bed, wrapping himself in fur and easing himself over by the fire. "Harry?" He knew his friend would understand the question.   
  
"It's bad," was the thin reply, reflecting Kim's concern more than the strain of his burden. Paris was on his knees before the fire first, spreading the furs and making room for the injured Amerindian. Stooping forward himself, wincing at the stifled moan from Chakotay, Kim leaned the commander back onto the pallets and immediately covered him with the blankets. He trembled with cold. His eyes were squeezed shut.   
  
"Chakotay, it's Tom Paris... You're safe in the cabin now." Despite the frailty of the lieutenant's own voice, he sounded calm and competent. Chakotay did not open his eyes, did not respond in any way. Kim gently lifted the rain and sweat-soaked head and helped him drink. Then he poured some more of the water onto a rag and wiped the burning forehead.   
  
"Harry... have you checked him out?"   
  
"I know his leg's hurt. I don't know what else. He's been out there a long time."   
  
Paris nodded and lifted back the blankets, exposing Chakotay's leg. His breath caught in his throat and he almost gagged. Swallowing hard, he stretched over the limb to the other one, running his hands over it in exploration. He repeated the process along the rest of the unmoving body, opening layers of jackets in the process. When he was finished he turned to Kim. "He's cut up in a lot of places... His hands are a mess... But it looks like the leg may be the worst injury."   
  
"It's broken... and the knee is crushed." They both jumped as Chakotay spoke with painstaking clarity, never opening his eyes. Paris could hardly believe that he was conscious, since he had been so still and unresponsive as the younger man had assessed his injuries. Kim lifted his head and slid his knees beneath it, trying to make him more comfortable. The two friends looked at each other expectantly.   
  
"Okay, then, we need to clean you up... and get this leg into a better position -"   
  
"I lost it."   
  
They were both bewildered. Paris asked, "What? You lost what?"   
  
He drew a deep breath. "The animal... the, the wallibeve." The words were excruciatingly slow, as if it took all of his strength to form words, to control his voice, to keep from screaming in pain instead of speaking. "It is dead." He opened his eyes to slivers, just enough to make out the figures at his head and feet. "I'm sorry for... for losing it." He closed his eyes again and swallowed back the cries that filled his throat.   
  
They had no idea what to say. Kim helped him drink once more, and finally stumbled through a response. "It's okay... really." He shrugged theatrically to Paris, who returned the gesture. /How can Chakotay think of wallibeves at a time like this? We almost lost him, too./   
  
Paris thought furiously. He finally relied on his ever-present sarcastic wit. "Yeah, Chakotay... we held a popularity test and... believe it or not... you had more votes than the wallibeve... So it's best that you're the one that came back."   
  
Something that might have been a smile twisted the tightly-pressed lips. "I... demand... a recount."   
  
Relieved glances passed between Paris and Kim.   
  
They washed him quickly, unwilling to let any part of his shivering body grow more chilled. They removed or cut away as much of the soiled clothes as possible and wrapped him warmly in furs and blankets. When the lacerations had been cleaned and the torn hands bandaged, they faced each other again. All that was left was the leg.   
  
"Tom, are you doing all right?"   
  
Slender face creased in concentration, Paris knelt on the floor beside the fire and the fallen officer, rubbing his own aching chest absently. It was more physical activity than he had known in some while, but he was moving slowly and carefully. He nodded. He did not have the luxury of resting yet.   
  
"I'll work on his leg... I'll need you to hold him."   
  
Kim looked to the still form and raised his eyebrow questioningly. The commander hardly seemed able to fight their ministrations.   
  
"Trust me. Just... hold him, okay?" Kim moved to obey, placing Chakotay's head again on his lap and leaning over him, resting his hands on the broad shoulders.   
  
Startling them once again, Chakotay spoke abruptly. "I want... to keep it." The sentence was definitely a statement, but his tone conveyed a question to his two officers.   
  
It was then that Paris realized how utterly defenseless Chakotay felt. The commander, in his own way, was pleading with them not to amputate his wounded leg. At least not now. If possible. Stoic. Proud. Stubborn. /Please, at least let me try to stay whole./   
  
The low, raspy voice - the voice of Paris's illness, accentuated by the recent reversal from which he was still recovering - whispered agreement and warned the reclining man of his impending touch. Then Paris cut away the last shreds of the leggings, careful to move the leg as little as possible. He touched the damp rag to it, trying to remove the worst of the blood and dirt. Chakotay did not move, did not react, did not watch. His jaw was clenched tightly and his white-knuckled hands squeezed fistfuls of fur. Kim maintained a supportive silence, alternately observing Paris's work and looking away from the maimed body.   
  
The swollen, torn, in places unrecognizable limb rested in an unnatural angle, both from the break and the lack of a functional knee joint. Paris fidgeted and cleared his throat. "I'm gonna have to... move it now, Chakotay." A short nod communicated the commander's understanding. Paris shot a quick glance to Kim and mouthed, "Hold him." The ensign kept his hands on Chakotay's shoulders.   
  
Biting his lip, Paris lifted the leg and tried to realign it, feeling for the ends of the broken bone. Immediately Chakotay arched his back, pulling a stunned Kim off his knees. They struggled, the younger man twining his arms through the commander's, fighting the reflexive responses that made the wounded man buck and heave so violently. He was strong even after his ordeal, moreso than Kim had anticipated. His face twisted in a mask of agony, his mouth open in a scream that had no voice. He held his breath, fighting for some dignity in the midst of overwhelming pain. As they embraced and struggled, Paris adjusted the leg in his best approximation of its proper position. The unnatural feel of the knee - like small marbles beneath smooth leather - made his stomach lurch. He finally drew away, himself trembling and sweat-soaked.   
  
"I'll have to splint this... and wrap the knee." He whispered, scooting away on his knees to locate the appropriate materials. Kim started to disentangle himself from Chakotay and help, but Paris waved at him to remain in place. "Stay there... I can handle it." Both Kim and Chakotay sank back wearily and sipped water from the bowl within Kim's reach.   
  
When Paris was ready to begin again, Kim linked arms with Chakotay once more. The commander could not help his desperate flailings as Paris moved the mutilated limb. When Paris began with the knee, Kim could hardly hold him.   
  
"C'mon, Chakotay," Paris hissed fiercely, himself intensely pained by the mute grimace on the flushed face. "You don't have to... prove anything to us... Scream all you like."   
  
There was no reply. But when Paris tightened the bandages around the knee, Chakotay cried out mindlessly, deep, guttural, dry sobs. Once he began it was difficult to stop. His throat was raw before Paris finished with the knee. When the lieutenant was through, all three men sagged in exhaustion. Chakotay turned his face toward the fire, away from the officers, gasping for breath. Paris shook his head. /I don't know how the man stays conscious through all this./   
  
"Just the splint now," he sighed, coughing quietly. Kim ached to help his frail friend with this work, but he knew Paris could not hold Chakotay if they traded tasks. So he obediently tightened his grasp and, with a reassuring squeeze to Chakotay, steeled himself to weather this last storm.   
  
It was a makeshift effort, but it was all any of them could handle. They could construct a sturdier brace later. They had set the leg. That was the important thing. Keeping Chakotay warm and giving him water, slowly strengthening him, would occupy the next few hours. Or days. Kim disentangled himself and pillowed Chakotay's head with rolled furs. As easily as Paris had stepped forward to choreograph their medical efforts, Kim now took the lead. Quietly, he slipped over to the drooping Paris and washed his blood-streaked arms and hands. Then he then guided the lieutenant, now coughing harshly, to his bed. The spent navigation officer nodded his thanks and curled himself around the covers, holding still until his breathing eased. "I'll keep an eye on him," Kim whispered, and Paris smiled gratefully before fading into shallow sleep.   
  
Kim then leaned over the commander and added a log to the fire, poking and prodding and stirring the embers into a blaze. Chakotay still shivered as his body fought its injuries and remembered its exposure. He clearly had a fever, but he had not shown any signs of delirium. Kim arranged the coverings around him, leaving the wads of fur again squeezed in each fist undisturbed. Then he straightened, sighing softly, considering his next move. /Water. Yes, we'll need more of that./ He gathered the biggest bowls together. As he stepped to the door he turned, considering the sleeping lieutenant and the silently suffering commander. His two patients. His responsibilities.   
  
From beneath flickering eyelids Chakotay watched the ensign as he worked around the cabin. They had managed well, the two of them, dividing the labor and making a life. Now he was lame, flat on his back, and their every need fell to Kim. It wasn't right that the gentle man, the youngest, least experienced of the three, should have to pull their combined weight alone. Kim turned at the doorway and glanced at each of them in turn. Then he opened the door and faced the night with determination, squaring his shoulders before dissolving into the darkness. The subtle transformation was not lost on Chakotay. Kim knew what this all meant. He understood that the very fabric of their lives here would have to be rewoven. He would take care of them. He would provide. He would hold all three of them together.   
  
It broke Chakotay's heart.

* * *

In the next days, the only way Paris could tell if Chakotay were awake or unconscious was the color of his clenched knuckles. The fists that held his covers never opened, but they relaxed enough to allow circulation when he was unconscious. When he was awake, they became a bloodless white. Paris did not force him to talk. When Kim was busy, Paris saw to it that the commander had water close at hand. But he would not take food, not yet. Fever still beaded his brow with sweat, and pain still creased his features.   
  
Finally, on the third day since Kim had found him, Chakotay woke Paris with the sound of movement. He was half-sitting on his pallet by the fire, trying to open the wrappings around his leg. His movements were clumsy and his face was twisted in concentration as he fought for energy for what seemed to be a mammoth task. Paris shifted silently so he could observe Chakotay through narrowed eyes. He knew better than to interrupt the commander's efforts. If the stubborn Amerindian wanted help, he would ask for it. Nevertheless, the lieutenant kept an eye on the older man, just to be sure.   
  
He shook with weakness and with the fever that refused to break. But eventually he laid the maimed limb bare save for the splint. As he unwrapped the knee he failed to bite back the quiet whimpers that filled his throat. Then he turned toward the fire. The light of the glowing embers reflected on the surface of a knife blade.   
  
Before he could think, Paris was beside him, white, slender, blue-veined hand closing over the trembling, burning almond arm. "Whaddya think you're doin'?" He whispered harshly.   
  
Chakotay flinched, clearly startled by the lieutenant's appearance. He did not let the knife fall, but he did not wrench away or fight, as the lieutenant had expected. It dawned on Paris that Chakotay was now too weak to struggle against even him. Instead of reacting in anger, he bent his head over until it was resting against Paris's shoulder. Thus steadying himself, he spoke in jerky fragments so quietly that the blond head had to bow beside the grey-streaked one in order to understand.   
  
"My leg... Fever... Gotta burn... Infection... Feel so strange... Gotta fix before... While I'm still... Got my senses." He sagged against the younger man, despondent over his own lack of clarity, his own inability to control himself. Then, just as quickly as he had given in to the despair, he pulled away feebly, tugging at his imprisoned arm, impatient.   
  
"Easy, easy." Paris disarmed him, wincing at the desperate moan the move evoked, and pressed him back into the furs.   
  
Chakotay squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to speak. "Don't.... stop.... me," he growled through his teeth. /Don't try to play hero now, Paris, you don't understand. Can't you see that I'm fighting for my life? I am not trying to hurt myself, you idiot, I am trying to save myself! Why do you even care, anyway?/ "Don't ... stop..."   
  
"Shhh. I am not... trying to stop you, ya big idiot... I'm trying to help you." He coughed into his sleeve, reluctantly turned to look at the leg, then faced Chakotay again. "You're right, it looks infected... And your fever hasn't broken... You think that," he swallowed convulsively, "lancing the wound with a hot knife... will help it. That's what you were trying to tell me... Am I getting the gist here?"   
  
Chakotay nodded slowly, relief easing the lines that seemed permanently drawn on the swarthy face. He lifted his shaking, bandaged palm, open, as if to ask for the knife's return.   
  
"What do you think... you're gonna do in your condition?"   
  
Chakotay's eyes narrowed angrily. /Try. I think I am going to try./   
  
Paris sighed. "I'd ask you if... if you trusted me... but I don't wanna know." He thrust the blade into the glowing embers himself. "Rest easy... It'll be okay." Chakotay's brown eyes stared at him for a moment, and grew wider when Paris placed a gentle hand on the broad shoulder. It shattered the carefully cultivated space between them. Paris froze as he was, holding his breath. Moments passed. Then Chakotay closed his eyes in compliance. In trust.   
  
It was a gift Paris truly did not expect.

* * *

She stepped to the podium matter-of-factly, with little word of introduction. "Let's get this underway, shall we? I know all of you have been very concerned about Commander Chakotay, Lieutenant Paris, and Ensign Kim. You know that we have reason to believe that they are alive on the surface, where they crash-landed weeks ago. You also know that we have reason to believe that their shuttle is unable to break free of the atmosphere of the planet. Furthermore, Lieutenant Torres and her engineering team have devised a means of penetrating this atmosphere and escaping from it successfully."   
  
"Lieutenant Torres and Kes were forced to abort their rescue attempt, however, due to an unforeseen situation. It seems that the continent side of the planet is entering a deep winter, one which will become far worse before it gets better. This would make a search almost impossible."   
  
"After a great deal of deliberation, I have ordered Voyager to maintain a stationary orbit around the planet until we can launch a rescue team. There have been questions regarding my order, which is why I speak to you know. This was not an easy decision. This will take months away from our journey, particularly when we consider that we do not know how long a search effort will take. As we find ourselves in a relatively resource-dry system, this will also mean that we will deplete our stocks. But I will not leave those men. If we find ourselves judging such situations by convenience, well, when we will return to the Alpha Quadrant we'll be lucky to have a skeleton crew aboard. We must remain committed to each other if we are to survive. I am dedicated to returning those three officers to their posts before we leave this system."   
  
"I appreciate the fact that this is a strain on us all. We miss our friends and crewmates. We feel helpless. But we are not. We are doing, and we will do, our best to resolve this situation as soon as possible. Until that time, I appreciate your patience and your support."   
  
The sea of faces did not completely mirror her feigned confidence.   
  
One crewman's voice in particular rose above the dull roar of whispers. Gesturing wildly, he turned his back on Janeway to speak to those behind him. He shook his head exaggeratedly.   
  
"Do you have an insight to offer, Crewman?"   
  
He whirled and swallowed, uncertain.   
  
"Do you?" she repeated.   
  
"We're twiddling our thumbs for months so we can send one shuttle to save the day? Without communication? While we wait again? Vulnerable to who knows what in the meantime?"   
  
"That's what I said."   
  
The crewman glanced around the hall and grew bolder as he registered scattered looks of support. "You're taking quite a risk!"   
  
"So are you, Mister." Her voice was threateningly soft.   
  
No one spoke.   
  
"This is not a subject for debate. The decision is made. Dismissed."   
  
She turned on her heel and left.

* * *

The chime sounded.   
  
Kathryn Janeway did not move.   
  
"Captain, it is Tuvok." The voice was muffled but the words were clear.   
  
"Come." The door slid open and the Vulcan entered. The captain remained as she was, half curled on the sofa, one hand clamped across her eyes.   
  
"You've come to stick pins?" Her voice drawled, slurred with fatigue. She knew without looking the cocked head and the drawn brows, lips pursed to question her obtuse query. With her other hand she waved away his response. "Forget it."   
  
He stood silently, waiting for some sign from her. "Stand by me, Tuvok." The plea was a whisper.   
"Always."   
  
She jerked toward him, eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously, pouncing on what she thought was a poorly-timed jest. But her reflexive retort stuck in her throat. Tuvok was not making a not-so-Vulcan attempt at humor. He was stating a fact. A fact she desperately needed to hear.   
  
She gasped with the comprehension of what he was saying. Her eyes filled with tears. Before she melted completely she returned her eyes to the safe shield of her hand. "So... what brings you here, Tuvok?"   
  
"You require rest."   
  
A harsh, throaty laugh. "Thanks for the obvious. I'll wager even you need rest by now. But you can't distract me so easily, old friend. What's on your mind?"   
  
"Certain members of the crew disagree with your actions regarding the landing party-"   
  
"I know."   
  
"Some are saying that the wait is too long and that Voyager should return to its primary objective of returning home. Conversely, others want to take more steps to help the Away Team. They claim that abandoning the men to the winter surface is a death sentence."   
  
She was still nodding. "I know, Tuvok."   
  
"From both camps, I detect a distinct unease about Kes and her abilities."   
  
/This is new./ "Fear of her or fear for her?"   
  
"Both, depending on how well each person knows her."   
  
/What are you saying to me, Tuvok? What's the subtext here? I've known you too long... I'm not so tired that I'm oblivious to your subtleties./ "I sound like some continual loop, but I'll say it again. Kes has made her choice and I will defend it." She was speaking into her own arm, eyes still covered, as if reciting the words of a familiar script. "The Doctor and Neelix agree with you, don't they?" Nonchalant. Calculated.   
  
"I was not merely discussing the three of us -"   
  
"They agree with you, don't they? Where are they now?" /Oh, I've got you./   
  
A pause. "I would expect to find them both in the sickbay."   
  
"Where you left them." /Gotcha./   
  
"Yes."   
  
Uncurling legs and arms she slapped the monitor before her. "Janeway to sickbay."   
  
"Well, hello, Captain, what can I -"   
  
"Listen to me. All three of you." Her voice was low, far more intimidating than the harshest scream. Neelix's startled face appeared beside the Doctor's in the viewscreen. Beside Janeway, Tuvok's eyes never left hers. "I know you care about Kes a great deal. You fear for her health and her stability. But did you ever stop to think that your constant interjections, your second-guessing and disapproval, they have added more stress onto her shoulders than anything else? She admires all of you, and your combined pressure pulls her in the opposite direction of what she's experiencing. You're tearing her apart!"   
  
Tuvok stiffened. The Doctor frowned. Neelix blustered. Janeway continued. "You are so terrified of her attention being elsewhere, that you can't see what you are doing to her. If you cared for her, you would respect her decision to pursue this link. You would encourage and support her. You would... act like adults."   
  
She sank against the table, spent with anger. "Please, please either help her... or just let her be. Janeway out." She terminated the link before either voice from sickbay could be heard. Then, guiltily, she faced Tuvok. "Diplomatic, aren't I?"   
  
"As I said before, you require rest."   
  
She smiled sadly.   
  
"I didn't mean to come across harshly. It's not my place to be so judgmental. But you of all people should appreciate what I am trying to say." Turning on her heel, she stretched and sighed. "Where is logic in all this?"   
  
"Captain, I require... further time for thought. It appears my logic falters..." He found no more words.   
  
"Goodnight, Tuvok." She folded back into the couch and wrapped her arms around herself, facing away from him. She was too tired for any more dramatics tonight.   
  
He paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. She waited, unmoving, for him to speak. But he did not. He just turned and left.

* * *

The night was still young, but the three men snowed inside the little cabin had no means of knowing it. They were wrapped in darkness, insulated by snow that fell from a sunless sky. But they had planned for such a situation and could survive for some time. The hours fell into cycles of camaraderie and quiet.   
  
Paris had been working on the written log by the firelight, but had almost exhausted every possibly noteworthy detail. It was hard to concentrate, anyway, since Kim was experimenting with the recorder. The tune escaped Paris. It was vaguely familiar, irritatingly so.   
  
"What is that, Harry?" He finally blurted his question, underestimating the volume of his exasperated query. Both Kim and his audience, a quiet, thoughtful Chakotay, jumped at the loud words. The voice grew stronger every day, the speech less winded and interrupted with coughs.   
  
"Balsunni. Why?"   
  
"I couldn't place it and it was driving me crazy."   
  
Kim shrugged. "It's classic. I'm sure you've heard it around. Maybe you even had it in the music appreciation course at the Academy."   
  
Chakotay groaned eloquently.   
  
"What?" The smile on Kim's face contrasted with the confrontational tone of his question.   
  
He shifted in the chair Kim had made for him, which was covered in thick fur and complete with an attached half-stool for his immobile leg. "I don't want to revisit that. I made the mistake of opting out of the general course in favor of one of the elective special studies. But the one I wanted filled up and I ended up stuck in 'The Andorian Opera'." Shaking his head, he flashed a rare smile. "The only good thing about Andorian opera is that all the characters die in the finale."   
  
"I opted out, too, but I got 'Bob Dylan as Poetry'." Paris punctuated his words with a thumbs-up sign.   
  
"They teach a whole course on one songwriter?" Kim was amazed.   
  
"This is back when Crawford was a prof -"   
  
"I heard about her. Eccentric." Chakotay nodded his understanding.   
  
"Yeah, she usually got her way. And she loved Dylan. Could she teach. Sometimes she even sang along. It was a great course." He leaned forward, folding the journal and storing it under the bed. He coughed quietly. "And I have always been partial to mid-twentieth century Western music."   
  
"Well, don't expect me to play requests. A little Rogers and Hammerstein, a little Andrew Lloyd Webber, and that does it for me." Kim resumed his Balsunni.   
  
"Oh, come on, we're all Humans here. At least play some Earth tunes!" Paris's voice became low and coaxing, still gravelly, yet reminiscent of his earlier self. "And an accomplished musician like you should know some of the greats of rock and roll, don't you think?"   
  
Kim lowered his recorder and glared.   
  
"I'm serious! The stuff's great. And addictive!"   
  
"Since when did you study early rock music?" Chakotay asked, bemused.   
  
"It was a natural extension of my love of early automobiles. They had radios, you know. When I started making holosuite programs with the old cars, it only seemed right to have them playing period music. Late 1950s, early '60s stuff. When rock was born."   
  
"For example?" Kim prompted him.   
  
"Uh, let's see. The best was Buddy Holly... " He paused, waiting for reaction.   
  
Kim shook his head. "Nope." Chakotay shrugged.   
  
"Oh, come on! Talk about classic! I'm sure you have heard of him. How about 'That'll Be The Day'? 'Maybe Baby'? 'It's So Easy'?" His eyes darted back and forth at the two as they stared back blankly at him. He sighed in frustration, running his fingers through his long hair.   
  
He tried again. "'Not Fade Away'?" No response. He groaned.   
  
And suddenly came alive.   
  
"I'm a gonna tell you how it's gonna be,   
Bop, bop, bop-bop."   
  
Kim and Chakotay exchanged stunned looks and then stared speechlessly at the finger-snapping Lieutenant with the wavering tenor.   
  
"You're gonna give your love to me,   
Bop, bop, bop-bop."   
  
Kim couldn't keep from snickering. Paris was not deterred.   
  
"I'm gonna love you night and day,   
Bop, bop, bop-bop.   
You know my lovin' not fade away."   
  
Chakotay was grinning now, his dimples obvious in his weathered face. Kim was laughing outright.   
  
"You know my lovin' not fade away."   
  
He ended his concert breathlessly, pointing both index fingers at Kim, now lying on his side on the floor, hysterical. Chakotay clapped grudgingly.   
  
"Nice snapping technique and thoughtful hand choreography. But don't quit your day job, Lieutenant."   
  
Kim finally caught his breath. "You're a man of many talents, Tom. But I still say I'd never heard of this Buddy before."   
  
"Buddy Holly, Harry. And that's a defect of your education that, thankfully, I can remedy." He smiled animatedly, coughing into his sleeve, clearly enjoying himself. "What about the Big Bopper?"   
  
Kim dissolved into laughter again. "You gotta be kidding! Big Bopper?!?!?"   
  
Laughing, too, Paris waved away that discussion. "Ritchie Valens?"   
  
"What did he do?"   
  
"A great dance song called 'La Bamba'."   
  
"La what?"   
  
"'La Bamba'. It was about.... uh, I'm not sure what it was about." His brow wrinkled in thought, and he scratched at his beard. "Something about a 'soy captain'." He coughed quietly and cleared his throat.   
  
"A soy captain? What's that?" Kim registered Paris's confusion and turned to Chakotay.   
  
"Hmm... the twentieth century saw new breakthroughs in non-meat-based forms of protein. Wasn't soy one of those sources? Soybeans and soy oil? Maybe this captain harvested or shipped it... " Even as he spoke, his face reflected the fact that Chakotay did not buy his own theory.   
  
"So let me see if I have this straight. This wild and crazy dance song is about a guy who harvests vegetarian protein supplements?" Paris narrowed his eyes in disapproval as Kim rolled on the floor, laughing. But soon all three of them succumbed to the humor of the moment. It struck Kim that he had not seen Paris look so happy - or so well - in months. Talking about the music he loved clearly made him feel better.   
  
When they finally settled down, Kim agreed to learn a few early rock ballads on the recorder. Paris would hum hoarsely and Kim would copy the tune.   
  
His "True Love Ways" was quite good.[ From "Not Fade Away," written by Hardin-Petty and first performed by Buddy Holly. 

This refers to "La Bamba," traditional folk song. Best known as performed by Ritchie Valens.]

* * *

She was still in uniform. It did not matter. Fewer and fewer things did these days. Her mind remained dizzyingly preoccupied, overwhelmed by fears she seemed powerless to combat. Kes and her sanity. The crew and mutiny. She had tried to hold it all together, to show a decisive, professional, unswerving face. Now she wondered if, instead, she had not made herself into an aloof, ineffective figurehead, inspiring neither trust nor loyalty. Paralyzed. And it all paled in comparison to the aching need she had inside to find her three lost officers.   
  
The holonovel, so long unused, now was forwarded to the end. It was raining. She shivered with cold. With a few weary gestures Janeway released her hair to fall to her shoulders. She stood there, the water soaking her. A fist closed around her communicator, seized it, and let it fall to the deck.   
  
The unkempt, grey manor house before her hid behind an opaque, chilled dusk.   
  
"'Quite a desolate spot'." She quoted Bronte under her breath and sighed. "Yes, old gal, I'd say so. That's exactly where I am." /And I'm not thinking about Ferndean, either./ A long-silent part of her mind reminded her of the next line. It was mockingly appropriate on so many levels. The irony jarred her as she spoke.   
  
"Can there be life here?"   
  
On cue the narrow front-door creaked open and a shadowed figure emerged. He stretched out a hand to check the weather. The bare-headed form felt the rain but stepped forwarded nonetheless. Groping, shuffling uncertainly, the proud, maimed man made his way onto the grass. His tucked his mutilated arm to his chest. His sightless eyes stared broodingly into blackness.   
  
Rochester represented everything that was lost to Janeway. The broad, dark frame with the mane of blue-black hair. The vulnerability of a fallen soul. The promise of innocence and ability. He was dear. He was hurt. He was in need.   
  
The program meant nothing. She disregarded the story she had loved for so long. She took him in her arms. This lost, wounded man she could save and soothe and salve. He was a Chakotay-Paris-Kim amalgam waiting for her to find him. To show him her strength and care. Things she could give. She had been waiting to give. She had to give.   
  
"Who is it? What is it?" The brusque voice demanded.   
  
"Computer, delete audio."   
  
The character remained, standing in the rain. After a moment he leaned into her strong arms as would a small child. She whispered many things to him. Promises. Praise. He would be well and whole and happy. Her sound body and her full heart and her sharp mind would lead him from desolation and deliver him from danger. She was not helpless, no, not anymore. She could feel his heartbeat. This rescue was real.   
  
/No more pain for you, no more pain for you.../   
  
It was a sacred thing, there in the dark and cold and rain. She closed her eyes and rocked him.   
  
When words failed her, she simply cried.   
  
Across the ship, in the mess hall, tempers flared. Crew members grew restless and worried. Arguments erupted. Plans formed. And yet agitators who did not agree could still joke in anger together that Janeway was nowhere to be found. As they fought over their fate, they saw no evidence of sleeplessness from the captain. That was her problem. The woman of stone had no heart. She talked about sticking together, but where was she?

* * *

They had prepared well. Before the first snow fell stacks of firewood lined the interior cabin walls, and dried herbs and wild vegetables hung from the overhead beams. Dried meat also hung from above and filled woven sacks. They were stocked to weather harsh winter days.   
  
But there was a limit to what they could do to compensate for limited resources and mobility. All three of them recognized that constant time without privacy and movement outdoors would be difficult. Chakotay was recovering, trying to regain a measure of independence, testing the limits of his crippled leg. Paris was always aware that his troubled breaths and frequent coughing punctuated the night and rattled already frayed nerves. He maintained the log book and strained to find anything to arrest his frantic attention.   
  
And Kim cared for both of them, acting the nurse and the peacemaker and a thousand other gentle roles. He performed the necessary chores, braved the obstacles they could not physically face, and provided the buffer personality between the two powerful personas. And daily he tried to respect the walls erected by his commanding officer and by his friend. As one officer strove for soundness and the other for self-respect, he helped them most by what he did not say and did not do.   
  
And he came to discover that people could be loneliest of all when they were not alone.   
  
All of his good intentions could not smother the fires that occasionally blazed between them. And all of his good intentions could not change the fact that their precious stores grew increasingly, alarmingly depleted. They rationed fuel. They rationed food. And the snow remained.   
  
Every ballad he could play, combined, could not feed them or keep them warm.

END OF CHAPTER TWO


	3. Standing On The Edge

CHAPTER THREE   
  
"I'm so tired I can't sleep   
Standing on the edge of something much too deep   
It's funny how we feel so much we cannot say a word   
We are screaming inside   
We can't be heard"   
- Sarah McLachlan

* * *

Neelix had known this day would come. Like a birth, or an execution, that future day met him every morning when he woke, taunting him with its inevitability. During breakfast this morning, the cook had overheard B'Elanna Torres talking about her projections. The landmass was emerging from its deep winter. If all went according to plan, she and Kes would leave tomorrow for the surface.   
  
The news hit Neelix in a physical way, leaving him breathless and pained with its passing. Their first departure months ago had been difficult. But Kes had been so much more.... herself then. Now, after suffering for her through the spells of pain and fear and fatigue, he could hardly bear to let her go. He left the mid-morning snacks on the counter of the mess hall, abandoned to the officers' self-service, and scurried to his quarters to face the shock in private.   
  
In some ways he felt that he had less of a right to feel protective of Kes now than he did then. This... situation... had opened a chasm between them that she dared not let either of them bridge. She clung to the emotions of the men doggedly, even as she let herself slip away.   
  
/I don't blame her./ In a sense Neelix felt loathsome inside for caring for her so much. /I want them back. I want Tom back. Next to Kes, he has been my best friend.../ Neelix's affection for the cocky pilot stung him reproachfully. /Wouldn't I risk my life to save him? Of course I would. And he would risk his for me. He has before./   
  
/But Kes's life?/   
  
He sat himself before the communications terminal, trying to think of the words he should send with Kes to hear before she alighted on the surface. /I'm sorry I have fought your brave attempts to save them. I understand why you are doing all of this. The Captain was right in supporting you./ He thought of Tom. /He is my friend, too, sweetie. Please take care of him as well as yourself. Bring him back.../   
  
Tom tortured. Kes changed. So many months passing. He suddenly wondered if he would really know either of them when they returned. /I could lose them both. The two people I care about the most. Whether or not they return, I could lose them./   
  
/Maybe they are both already lost./   
  
Sitting there in his dark quarters, Neelix was frighteningly aware that he was one small man in the cold expanse of space. And he was ashamed. Of selfishly prodding Kes, of selfishly clinging to her now, of selfishly bemoaning the plight of a friend whose rescue he had fought for months. /Kes and Tom. Her sanity, his life. I was in the middle. Now I am simply on the edge./   
  
With a sigh of disgust for his own shortsightedness and helplessness, he pushed himself away from the darkened screen. Kes needed no tape from him.

* * *

"Kes?"   
  
B'Elanna Torres stood silently, waiting for the Ocampa's voice to respond. When it did not, Torres cautiously began to search the once-tidy quarters that were now littered with sheet music, small carvings, and even a satin slip which looked suspiciously like the shade of pink preferred by one of the Delany sisters. She finally found Kes half-submerged in her tub, her head floating above a mound of scented bubbles.   
  
"B'Elanna! Can you believe it? The Doctor formulated bubblebath that smells like the hydroponics bay! Livadian Spredendron!" Torres smiled. Before she could reply, Kes spoke again, in another tone of voice altogether. "I used to love the smell... it seems like so long ago." Her eyes took on a glazed quality. "Um, how did Harry die? Not ours, the other one?"   
  
The engineer backed up rapidly, backing herself into the corner of the small bathroom, shocked by the swift change. "Don't. I don't want to -"   
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." Her voice trailed off weakly.   
  
"I just don't want to talk about it. I won't let it happen again. That's why I'm here." She heard the edge in her voice, the offensive reflex of a cornered animal facing a sudden looming threat. "The captain asked me to finalize our flight schedule, and I wanted to check with you about the time of departure."   
  
Kes shrugged. "As soon as possible is fine."   
  
"Good."   
  
"You'll bring the equipment?"   
  
"Yes. All you need to bring is you."   
  
A short nod.   
  
"Are you okay, Kes? I mean, do you still feel the same about going tomorrow?"   
  
"Oh, yes!" The wide eyes were guileless, open.   
  
"Good. I'll be by in an hour or two to go over the final details."   
  
"Thanks, B'Elanna." She slid almost totally beneath the bubbles, her gaze unfocused.   
  
Pausing at the bathroom door, the lieutenant rested her crested forehead against the archway. Her words came out in a flat, dead tone. "He suffocated in space. One moment I was holding his hand, the next he was falling into the vacuum. Alone. It was the worst day of my life." A quick intake of breath, noting a new thought. "It was the worst day of the life I led before they were stranded. This is all kinds of new hell." Pushing herself upright again, she headed for the door without looking back at the Ocampa. "But you know what that's like. Who am I to talk? See you in a little while."

* * *

"Captain's log: supplemental. We are biding our time as Lieutenant Torres and Kes search planetside. I had little faith that their deployment to the surface would alter sentiments among the crew, and my cynicism seems well justified. Luckily for me the factions that disagree with my policy also disagree with each other. Perhaps that has been the saving element all along."   
  
"Although I believe I have handled the situation with Kes as well as I know how, my conscience is not entirely easy. Starfleet must respect the rights of individuals to decide how and when to use their personal gifts. I could no more ask Kes to pursue this telepathic link with the officers than I could order Tuvok to perform a mind-meld. It is too intimate, too personal. But am I not somehow responsible if Kes has crossed the boundary and can no longer make rational choices? Have I stood by and willingly let her injure her own mind? If so, how can I live with myself?"   
  
"I knew what it meant to be a Starfleet Captain before I ever accepted command. Was it hubris to think that I could maintain that delicate balance? There is no black and white anywhere to be found. Everything, everything is grey. I keep wondering - how did I get from there to here? It seems... Computer, end recording... Come."   
  
She straightened as her visitor entered. "Tuvok, have a seat." /Shall we dance on eggshells once again, old friend?/   
  
"Captain, I have come... to offer my services."   
  
"I'm sorry, I don't follow you."   
  
"As Chief of Security and Acting First Officer."   
  
She shook her head, bewildered.   
  
"You were correct in presuming that my... interest in Kes's condition clouded my judgment. When you required a sense of the crew's mood, I was preoccupied with my own concern. When you wanted to present 'a united front,' as you put it, I undermined your position. When you, as a Human, needed reassurance, I left you with no ally. For these things, I apologize."   
  
She rose slowly and walked to the replicator. "Double mochaccino, hot." Wrapping both hands around the materialzed mug, she sniffed approvingly and curled back into her chair.   
  
"What brought this on?"   
  
"Kes is gone. I have had time to contemplate." /You know that I felt I should have gone with her. Torres could have instructed me and allowed me to pilot the shuttle. You chose to keep me here. But I realized that I had no position here. I had relinquished it months ago./   
  
"I see." /I could not afford to let you go to the surface with her. B'Elanna sees her as the lifeline she is. You would have tried to limit her. Besides, I wanted you here all along. Even the last time they tried to go down there, I wanted you by my side. I needed you, Tuvok. I needed you more than anyone, but when I looked around, you weren't there./   
  
"Can we pull this out in the eleventh hour?"   
  
"I am sorry, Captain, please explain -"   
  
"Say they find them. Say they bring them back and we are free to leave. Will we be able to function again as one crew? Has too much damage been done?"   
  
"The returning officers, if they are... functional, will serve as a rallying point for the crew. They could restore unity. If they return soon."   
  
"And if not?"   
  
"We will face the situation together." He met her eyes.   
  
She smiled at him, and for a moment he saw a shadow of familiar affection. "Better late than never, Tuvok."   
  
/Agreed, Captain./

* * *

"You've been quiet. Is there any way we can make you more comfortable?"   
  
Kes was perched behind the broad shoulders of a wallibeve, her short legs tucked into a side-saddle position. "No, I'm fine. I'll just switch sides every so often."   
  
"Be sure to tell me if you need to stop."   
  
She nodded absently.   
  
Torres chewed her lip in frustration. /I haven't meddled in your life. In fact, I have gone out of my way to help you, just as you've given yourself to search for the others. I haven't judged you on how you've managed. Don't start judging me on how I conduct my end of things. None of this is easy./   
  
She instantly felt guilty for her defensive thoughts. "Kes, I'm sorry you had to see that."   
  
"It's okay. I wasn't expecting you to kill them, that's all."   
  
"Is it?" No answer. "Kes, I have to treat these aliens as hostiles. They were near the sight where you think they landed, right? We must assume that these beings could be threatening. And, besides, we needed mounts." The last sentence sounded a bit flippant, and she instantly regretted it.   
  
"Is that what it is like, being a Maquis?" She still did not face Torres.   
  
The question took her by surprise. "I got used to it. There was a purpose, you know, it wasn't simply fighting for the thrill of it. We had a cause. Sometimes it's just kill or be killed, Kes. No ethical dilemmas. No shades of grey. The only sin is giving in. You protect yourself and what you believe in, or you and everything you care about fades away." She nudged her mount, which was falling behind the steady pace of Kes's. "I just regret you had to be there."   
  
"I don't." The voice was very small.   
  
"I... don't understand."   
  
"I wanted them dead." Very small, but steady. No tremble. No quiver. She knew what she was saying and accepted it. Small but strong. Just like the Ocampa herself. She stretched her shoulders and then continued. "While you were fighting them... I was remembering. Through him. They were hostile. In fact, those two guards helped to torture Tom."   
  
Torres was speechless. /Why didn't you tell me? But, then again, what would I have done differently if I had known? It's not like I could've killed them again. She almost smiled in spite of herself. I would've enjoyed it more, though./ She returned from her reverie to find Kes considering her intently. The expression was like a cold splash of water.   
  
"I don't know how you've managed, Kes. You've held us and them together."   
  
She shook her head and looked away. "All of us are affected, B'Elanna. Your help has meant a great deal to me, though."   
  
"Can I ask you something personal?" Torres dropped the volume of her voice instinctively, so that Kes had to lean slightly on her wallibeve to catch her query.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"When Chakotay was hurt, you called me to take you to his quarters. How did you know to do that?"   
  
She snorted, the undignified noise forcing a shocked grin onto Torres's face. "Who should I have called? Tuvok? And gotten a lecture on controlling my emotions and rationing my telepathic contact? You were much more helpful. I know he was worried for me, I don't mean to sound ungrateful. But that's not what I needed."   
  
"I, uh, meant why did you think I had Chakotay's security code?"   
  
She seemed stunned. "You did, didn't you?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Good. I've lost long periods of time. I must admit, I can't remember that night. But I thought you'd helped me...."   
  
"Why did you think I would have it?"   
  
"Because Chakotay trusts you more than anyone else on the ship."   
  
Spoken as a self-evident truth, her words struck Torres forcefully. "How much do you know, Kes?"   
  
"Enough." No sarcasm or mystery. Simple fact.   
  
/When did she become so elusive?/   
  
Before the engineer could speak, Kes shot a wicked glance at her. "Don't your legs hurt?"   
  
"Um-hmmm." She bared a feral grin. "It's great." /You're smooth, too, aren't you?/   
  
"Let me guess, that's the Klingon half answering, huh?"   
  
"Oh yeah." /So much for personal questions.../

* * *

They took their cue from the wallibeve, stumbling groggily from its hibernation, that spring was awakening their mountain home. It was not a moment too soon. Kim was unsure if they would starve, freeze, or annoy themselves to death. Now springtime meant a sweet release in many welcome ways.   
  
"I know my limits. I am not a fool." Chakotay rubbed the flank of the wallibeve affectionately. Quieting, settling his tone, he turned to Kim as to a fellow man he had to convince, rather than as to an inferior officer. "I know I'm a slow, crippled man. But I'm being rational about this. I spent a long time learning where trap-setting was most effective, at which watering holds I could spear a catch from the saddle. Even though I'll be slow, it will still be faster for me to go than for you to have to relearn all that I know. Besides, if you go hunt, I will have to do your work here with the plants, and I will be doubly slow from my leg and my lack of knowledge." He leaned back stiffly on the highly carved crutch, one of his winter projects, one they had come all too close to burning for fuel, and sighed. "If I can't do it, I will concede the point and help you as best I know how. But I must try before I give up."   
  
Kim nodded and gave him a brief, encouraging smile. He had no intention of standing in the Native American's way. He had offered in order to give Chakotay the option. He was not surprised at the decision. "Do you, um, need help mounting?"   
  
"I've got it. Thanks. I'll make this trip a short one, for starters."   
  
Kim patted the animal once before stepping away. Chakotay did not move. It suddenly struck Kim that the commander was waiting for him to retire, so he did so quickly, without a word.   
  
Sliding the crutch into the side of the saddle, Chakotay proceeded to stirrup the foot of his good leg and gingerly bring the stiff, maimed one over the beast with his hand. Tears sprang into his eyes as he settled himself on its back. Pains through his leg and knee, pains that would never heal, tore him. /I actually feel old enough to be Kim's father./ Of course he was. But he had never before felt his years. It was as if he had lost his youth and his prime on that cliff months ago. /This is a new life in many ways./   
  
But with no further ado, he led the wallibeve back along familiar trails.   
  
Indoors, Paris was incredulous. "You let him go? Harry, he can hardly walk!"   
  
Kim groaned melodramatically. "There was no 'letting' involved. He was right. He should try. That's what he does, he has the experience. Besides, he'll be in the saddle most of the time."   
  
"Which is how he was injured in the first place -"   
  
"Would you rather keep him company all day?"   
  
"That was low, trying to use guilt on me."   
  
/We have plenty to go around. Each of us stays haunted by the sacrifices of the other two. If we ever did use it on each other, Tom, none of us would be left standing./   
  
"Just trying to keep you off guard." He winked and Paris smiled. Then he slipped back out into the sunshine before his real mood grew too heavy to mask. Spring meant another season. Stranded. Alone with what-could-have beens. There were moments when he could not remember Libby's face.   
  
But there were leaves to gather and wood to chop.

* * *

Kes knew they were close. It was she, in fact, who suggested splitting up that morning. Torres let her wallibeve make its own way though the mountainside. She herself listened and watched with the unswerving attention of the outlaw she had been - and still was, in another quadrant.   
  
The animal naturally sought water. Instinct caused the wary engineer to halt it prematurely, though, and approach the spring with stealth. Her instincts rewarded her. There, beside the spring, knelt a hunter with a fresh kill.   
  
The old man bent over the carcass on one knee, touching it with his hands and murmuring quietly to himself. Then with swift surety the trussed it, so that his nearby mount could carry it. When he was done, he slowly rose, straightening, it seemed, painfully, until he swayed on the once-bent leg. He moved a practiced hand to the other leg, the one that had remained outstretched to the side as he knelt, and pulled it inward until both legs were straight beneath him. His movements were methodical and calm. Every motion spoke of self-reliance and practice. He drew the tall staff from the ground beside him and leaned on it heavily.   
  
Then the leathery visage turned to look at her slowly, calmly, as if the hunter had known she had been there all along. Her gasp cut the silence and her hand instinctively closed over her own mouth, as if she feared she would cry out. The man still showed no signs of alarm. In the softest possible voice, he asked, "B'Elanna Torres, are you a vision?"   
  
She did cry out then, her face betraying a mixture of pity and exhilaration. She drew a breath and could not speak. Swallowing, she tried again. Her voice seemed oddly intrusive in this still scene. "No, Chakotay, I'm not a vision. I'm real... And I've been looking for you for so long." With exaggerated care she dismounted, walked purposefully across the rocky streambed, and climbed onto the bank until she stood face to face with her commander, her former captain, her mentor. She could not hide the expression on her face.   
  
"I have changed." No grief. No anger. Simple self-awareness. Of course he knew. He had caught the occasional look of surprise when the firelight painted his face and found its deep grooves, defining the shadows below his cheekbones and the lines around his eyes. He had noted the veiled concern that met him when he returned from the hunt as grey as the frosted mountains he traveled. He knew the locks that slapped his cheeks in the rain no longer showed a trace of the blue-blackness he had always known. He knew it and he felt it. The constant weight on his shoulders, the refrain in his vision quests. Keeping them alive. Keeping them sane. Keeping them together. It was his and he embraced it. It was not a destiny to be fought or hated. It simply was. And he had met this destiny as he could.   
  
And spent himself in the process.   
  
He repositioned the crutch without looking at it, and drew himself up taller.   
  
She nodded honestly. Then she reached out a hand to touch him, to be certain that this encounter was real. He had never been a man given to physical displays. An occasional hand on her shoulder was all she had ever received from him, and even that small gesture spoke to their close friendship. He was private. Apart. But now, as she moved to touch the white hair that framed the weathered face, he almost imperceptibly leaned into her palm and let it cradle his jawline. This simple, human act of need and of reassurance flooded her heart and soul. It told of his doubts, his anguish, his faith, and his joy. The tears she had fought sprang unbidden to trail down her cheeks. She let them. They stood that way for several moments, his eyes closed, drinking in her reality, and her silent, tender tears blurring the image of this gentle, quiet man. They were two tired warriors come to the battle's end.   
  
After the moments passed, she let her hand fall away from his face. She did not wipe away her tears; he had shown her his vulnerability, so she would allow hers as well. Clearing her throat, she dared to ask. "Tom? Harry?"   
  
"They are alive." She exhaled heavily, reeling with relief, so full it felt heavy. Before she could speak again, he leaned to her ear and whispered, "But they, too, have changed."

* * *

Harry was chopping wood behind the cabin, humming one of Paris's songs quietly to himself. The days would soon be hot again, but they knew enough to prepare for the chill nights. /We've done this before. We know we can make it through anything now./ He could not explain the strange jauntiness he felt on this day. But the melancholy loneliness was gone for the moment. He knew it sprang somehow from his confidence - confidence in himself, in their survival, in the very seasons. Spring had returned and he was still alive and strong enough to withstand whatever it would bring. And he would see the others through as well. /"Well, all right. Well, all right. We'll live and love with all our might. Well, all right. Well, all right..."/   
  
A sudden movement, a sense that he was being watched, an instinct clutched the lyrics from his mind and hurtled him toward his ever-near bow. He slowly walked to the front corner of the cabin, facing the clearing. Whatever it was, it paused at the edge of the tree line, hidden. He drew himself up to his full height and stood, ready to defend his home and the friend within it. He waited.   
  
And then it emerged.   
  
And then he was running.   
  
Ocampa and Human met halfway in an whirling embrace and breathless laughter. When they finally parted, she looked up at him and studied him carefully. To Kes, he appeared like the classic heroes of Human legend she had studied. His long black hair, braided back from his face, hung down a back framed by almost impossibly-wide shoulders. His thick arms, his bronzed chest with its laced animal-skin vest, his proud carriage - they were not a part of the young, naive, hopeful ensign she had known on Voyager. They attested to Kim's own metamorphosis, to the provider he had become. Kes understood how Paris's despair and Chakotay's pain had failed to suffocate the valiant officers. This - man - in front of her could carry a world on his broad shoulders.   
  
As Kim silently smiled at the young Ocampa, his thoughts were quite similar. Dressed in survival gear, booted for the mountains, she nearly glowed beneath the drab colors of Starfleet standard issue. Her eyes were so bright, so piercing, he had no trouble believing that she could have seen through the atmosphere, down upon the three men. Now that he was so close to this power, this warmth, this very source of their survival, he felt that he were experiencing something more holy than mortal. Surely not a delicate life that would burn out in a mere decade. And how much of that short life had she spent on their plight? How many months had she lost forever?   
  
"Thank you. Thank you for everything." It seemed ridiculously little to say. But she seemed to understand.   
  
She smiled. "B'Elanna should be here shortly. May I see Tom?"   
  
/Not 'Is Tom alive' or 'Where is Tom.'/ Kim chuckled inside at the awe he felt. /She knows./   
  
"Could I have just a minute?"   
  
She nodded. This, too, was expected. Leaving her in the middle of the clearing, Kim dashed for the cabin door.   
  
[From "Well...All Right," written by Holly-Allison-Petty-Maudlin and first performed by Buddy Holly.]

* * *

Kim burst into the cabin, shocking Paris so that he scrawled a haphazard line across the hide logbook in which he was writing. The ensign grinned at the reclining lieutenant with unabashed joy.   
  
"Tom, they've found us." Paris bolted upward and Kim caught him by the shoulders. "Kes is waiting outside."   
  
His friend responded as he had anticipated. "Help me... I don't want her to see me this way." Kim helped him locate and lace up the vest and finger-comb his hair. They wrapped his feet and grabbed his cane. As Kim eased him to a stand, Paris hugged him tightly.   
  
When he finally pulled away from the embrace, Paris consciously broke away from Kim, leaning on the cane and stepping forward slowly on his own. Kim let him. As soon as he cleared the doorway, Kes was there. He stood for a moment, held up by a slender cane and slender pride. When he opened his mouth to speak, no words came.   
  
The two had much to discuss. Kim watched Paris sink down onto the stump-stool in front of the cabin, crying, sobbing small words into her shoulder. Kes was holding him, rocking him, nodding to Kim over the thin shoulder. She could explain his dreams and tell him he had never been alone. And he could set her free. Kim raised his eyebrows mutely. /Will you be all right?/   
  
She nodded silently. /Yes. Everything will be better now. It just has to be./

* * *

When Torres and Chakotay arrived at the cabin, Kes used the distraction to quietly consider the three men. She was amazed that Chakotay could move at all with his crushed limb. And Paris's condition posed so many unanswered questions. With characteristic tact, she managed to discreetly offer painkillers to the proud commander and the fragile lieutenant. Her empathy was rewarded as she watched the pain-etched lines around the dark brown and light blue eyes ease, if only a little. Another hypo lessened Paris's coughing a bit. She feared to do more until his disease was better understood.   
  
That night the five of them ate stew and told stories. They agreed to journey back to the hidden shuttle in the morning light. The rescuers observed the three men intently as the talked. Chakotay shifted in his custom-made chair, used to the burden of his leg. Stained stones by the fire, colorful hangings on the walls, and dyed paintings on his tunic echoed the ancient symbols they knew from his quarters. He spoke little, but smiled more often. Paris's appearance and obvious frailty shocked both of them, but equally unexpected was the practiced behavior that he had learned to accept, the small ways in which they helped him that were so routine they remained unacknowledged by all of the involved parties. A steadying hand, an extra blanket, a cup of tea. His comrades paused when he coughed and listened intently when his husky voice spoke. Their demeanor revealed that he was better than he had been, but that his condition had been known to change suddenly. Harry played the recorder like Kes had imagined he played the clarinet. His music smiled. And the self-assured man who played it was as beautiful as the melody he produced.   
  
Torres and Kes curled on fur mats like Kim before the fire. And everyone talked about Sandrine's.

* * *

There were three wallibeves and five of them. Paris and Kes alternately sat behind Kim and Torres, allowing themselves to lean heavily against their strong shipmates. Chakotay rode alone, so that no companion would jostle his leg. They loaded his mount with their sparse belongings. Some furs in case they should need to spend the night outdoors. Food for the trip. The logbook.   
  
They traveled in relative silence, the women allowing the three officers time to gradually get used to company once again. They made frequent stops to let Paris lie back and rest and Kes stretch her legs. Often Chakotay would simply remain in the saddle, wishing to forego the arduous process of dismounting.   
  
Kes could not shake the utter bewilderment she felt. She was thankful she no longer led the rescue. Torres knew where they had left the shuttle. All Kes had to do was rest her head on Torres's shoulder or Kim's strong back and think.   
  
Nothing had changed. This was the day for which she had been living for so long. But the climax she had anticipated as she embraced Paris did not materialize. On the one hand, they were still far away. Chakotay was still enigmatic, a contradictory blend of assured calm and uncomfortable alienation. He was withdrawn now, more than ever. Paris, well, Paris was difficult. It was him, obviously, wounded inside and out, staring from behind those pale eyes. No cockiness was there, though. Had he somehow found a shred of dignity in the midst of his humiliation? And Kim seemed more the leader than the child of the three. Tested in fire and now quietly self-assured, even protective of the lieutenant and the commander.   
  
Yet even though they seemed hard to reach, more subjects of study than friends with whom to sympathize, she still felt them inside, as intimate as ever. Stoic. Patient. Wounded. There were ancient words and beautiful music and joking laughter inside them. And multiple shades of guilt. Hurt, fading away. Excrutiating self-awareness, recognition of change. /This will be harder to let go than I imagined. I still don't know where I end and they begin. How can I sever this tie? How can I be Kes again? It's been so long, do I even remember how to be her anymore?/ Neelix's embrace, the Doctor's sickbay, Tuvok's tutelage, they seemed like images from another life. As if Kes were another lost crewmate she was trying to contact, whose life she was catching in fragmented glimpses. /Now I fully understand why they warned me... Is there any 'me' left?/   
  
Time. She needed time.   
  
They reached the shuttle within a day. The small craft seemed crowded with five aboard, but no one seemed to mind. They were going home to a waiting, welcoming Voyager. They would find their way back, in more ways than one.

* * *

Janeway sat on the bridge, rubbing her nose self-consciously. /Hold it, hold it, hold it./ Why she ever let the Doctor talk her into testing the aromatherapy program in her quarters, she did not know. Now she smelled it on her uniform. /Yes I do. The prime motivator - guilt. There is so much of it these days. I feel sympathy for what he has been through, although I don't agree with how he has handled it. But I have been hard on him. So I let him use me as a guinea pig. Why Egyptian musk, though? Why would he think that was 'me'?/ She gave up her nose-rubbing. She could fight it no more. She sneezed.   
  
It was one of the moments on board the ship where the hum of the engines, the rhythmic blink of the console lights, and the familiar pattern of the stationary orbit lulled Janeway into momentarily believing that all was right with her crew and her command. In the next moment, the bridge exploded into the frantic turmoil that reminded her that all that stood between the crew and the deadly cold of space was a slender, repaired, destructible metallic hull.   
  
"I'm reading a vessel on wide scan heading this direction -"   
  
"Can you identify?"   
  
"It's Vidiian, Captain."   
  
She spun around to look at Tuvok. /If you're back on my team, old friend, it's time to play now./ "Heading?"   
  
The young woman standing at the console that had once been Harry Kim's shook her head with frustration. "It looks like a cruise path, but it will take it right past Voyager."   
  
"How soon will they detect us?"   
  
"A Vidiian ship? At present speed? Within, um... three minutes."   
  
Janeway was on her feet, circling her chair. She struck the side of the officer's console sharply. "I haven't come this far only to have my crew harvested for body parts."   
  
The navigation officer swiveled to face her. "Captain, we've got to get out of this system!"   
  
"We are not leaving five men and women on that planet while we turn tail and run."   
  
"But we can't -"   
  
But Janeway had closed her eyes in thought. Everyone on the bridge turned to stare at her. Moments were passing by, bringing them closer second by second to the Vidiian's attention. She snapped her fingers.   
  
"Tuvok, can we assume that the planet's atmosphere would block the Vidiian's sensors as it did ours?"   
  
"Considering their technology, Captain, it seems highly probable."   
  
"So if we assumed a stationary orbit on the opposite side of the planet -"   
  
"- The Vidiian ship would be unaware of our presence."   
  
A sharp nod. /Now we're getting somewhere./ "Helm, get us to the other side of the planet, maximum impulse. Then establish a stationary orbit."   
  
"Aye, Captain."   
  
"Ensign Vaughan, project the Vidiian's path and determine the second, and I do mean second, we can return to our original position without being detected."   
  
"Aye, Captain."   
  
"You do realize, Captain, that this will leave a window in which the shuttle could emerge -"   
  
"I know. They could return three months from now, or three minutes from now. It's a risk." She sighed. "It's the best we can do." /Grey. Lots of grey. The color of my world./

* * *

"Okay, brace yourselves, this is where it gets tricky." Torres played the console like a keyboard and fought to lean forward as the shuttle picked up speed. "We're shutting her down now!"   
  
The shuttle went black. They were flying on momentum, utterly blind. The engineer counted silently to herself. No one spoke. Then she repowered the craft as they cleared the atmosphere, rapidly putting all systems online before they plummeted back down again. Thrusters. Life support. Sensors.   
  
The viewscreen flickered then cleared.   
  
It was completely filled with the image of a Vidiian ship.   
  
They were flying directly into the belly of a deadly enemy.   
  
"What the -"   
  
"Evasive maneuvers!" Chakotay hissed. Torres shook her head, clutching at controls and cursing. They were too close. They could not turn around. And even if they could, they would simply be captured and dissected.   
  
Kim felt Paris's thin frame tense beside him. Acting instinctively, the ensign grabbed him bodily and hurled him toward the panel. In concert with Kim's reflex, Chakotay twisted out from the second chair, moving so quickly he simply let himself slide onto the shuttle floor. Propelled by Kim's strength, Paris caught the back of the chair and fell into it. Smooth as silk. They had learned each other well.   
  
Paris's fingers were a blur across the console. /Don't think. Just do. You're the best pilot in this quadrant./   
  
Kes, sitting behind Torres, scooted forward and wrapped her arm across the shoulder of Chakotay, who now sat at her feet. The embrace was a protective one, and the startled commander squeezed her hand in return.   
  
It happened so fast. Paris was mumbling in between the quiet coughs he no longer concentrated on suppressing, his voice hardly loud enough to carry to Torres. "What's the... deck on this?"   
  
"You have two hundred meters before you're fried -"   
  
"See Voyager?"   
  
"No, and no residual traces. They're not here and they're not destroyed."   
  
"Hard left, c'mon... c'mon baby -"   
  
"You're too close!"   
  
"C'mon baby -"   
  
"Tom!"   
  
"Fix on... their path?"   
  
"Not enough data yet -"   
  
"They're as surprised... as we are. They're holding so still -"   
  
"We're gonna -"   
  
"No, not by... a hair."   
  
And with that they cleared the ship with a piloting feat more likely to tear the shuttle apart than to avoid ramming the hull. But it worked.   
  
Torres looked over their shoulder. "They can lock onto us at any minute. If we go down they still know we're there. If we stay they'll board us-"   
  
Chakotay stiffened and looked up to the engineer. "What's the planet like -"   
  
"What?"   
  
"Nearest body of water -"   
  
She whirled, searching for coordinates by memory. "I don't understand what -"   
  
"Hurry people -" Paris wheezed, his eyes glued to the screen.   
  
"Head for it. Above the atmosphere." Chakotay seemed so self-possessed it chilled Kes. "Then cut the juice and plunge down."   
  
Kim was nodding vehemently. "They'll follow -"   
  
"Incoming, almost point blank!" Paris whispered, and the shuttle rocked violently. Kim lurched to steady Chakotay, still on the deck.   
  
"Can you get there, B'Elanna?" The commander asked.   
  
She was nodding, feeding data into Paris's console. They lurched and turned again, skimming the underside of the massive Vidiian vessel like a fly beneath the stomach of a lion.   
  
"The damage will make this harder -"   
  
"Returning control... to you for power-down."   
  
The small shuttle followed a frantic scatter-pattern as Torres figured its position above the planet.   
  
"I think we're well above the ocean now." She glanced at Chakotay, who nodded.   
  
"Hold on."   
  
And they were falling.   
  
Chakotay was sliding. Kim and Kes fought to hold him and themselves. Paris's coughs echoed in blackness.   
  
Again, Torres felt her way along the controls, repowering the ship. "We're gonna have to get pretty low to build up enough speed. Better get out of the neighborhood first -" The viewscreen showed them skimming the waves of an endless blue ocean.   
  
"Y'okay, Tom?"   
  
"Dandy, Harry... how low do you want... to go, B'Elanna?"   
  
"This'll do. Barely."   
  
It was as if a million voices were screaming in their ears, rending apart the sky. "They're coming, they're coming -"   
  
Behind them, the Vidiian craft plunged into the ocean, as powerless as the first Starfleet shuttle had been so many long months ago.   
  
Torres was not looking. "Hold on. We go now or not at all." She pointed the shuttle's nose up and begged the controls for speed. The last sight the viewscreen held before it went dark was the thirsty waves of water displaced by the sinking ship reaching up to pull the helpless shuttle down into the ocean.   
  
"Fly," Torres whispered quietly. /The stakes just went up. If we can't punch through this time, they'll be no crash-land for us. We'll be fish food. Just like the Vidiians./ She felt no sympathy for her former torturers. /Kill or be killed.../ "Now! We made it!""   
  
For the first time in months, Tom Paris sat at navigation, staring into the stars. Despite Kes's painkillers, the sudden frantic exertions had reawakened the agony inside his lungs. He leaned forward heavily, exhausted. But he dug his fingers into the panel and held himself in place, steeled as if to prevent any hand of fate from taking him away from the helm again. He was already home.

* * *

"Janeway to Torres."   
  
"Torres here."   
  
"What is your status?" /You know what I mean./   
  
"We've been waiting for you, Captain."   
  
"'We'?" She was holding her breath.   
  
"Yes, Captain, we thought we might hitch a ride." The voice was quiet. She could hear a feeting smile in his calm tone.   
  
"Chakotay..." Her voice caught, and she took a breath. "It's good to hear your voice."   
  
"You sound... pretty good yourself." A gravelly whisper.   
  
/Can it be? Tom?/ "I'm flattered, Mister Paris."   
  
"Hey, I want to say something!"   
  
She laughed. "I think you just did, Mister Kim. Welcome home, gentlemen. We will beam you directly to sickbay as soon as you are in range -"   
  
"With all due respect, Captain, I believe we would like to go to sickbay under our own power."   
  
/Thank you, Chakotay. You read my mind. Now I know that the three of you are okay./ "Very well, Commander. I will meet you in the docking bay. By the way, I know this will sound inadequate, but I'm sorry about our absence, B'Elanna. A Vidiian ship -"   
  
Torres groaned. "We've, uh, met."   
  
"That explains the damage to your hull we are reading. And?"   
  
"We almost rammed them when we cleared the atmosphere. We ended up leading them back down. They crashed, without power, in the ocean. They're gone."   
  
It took a moment to register. "Good work, lieutenant. You saved not only those on the shuttle, but the inhabitants below."   
  
"Well, I wouldn't have stayed up nights to mourn their fate..."   
  
"Understood. And agreed. But you did the right thing. Now get back here. I just want to look at all of you."   
  
The end of the transmission brought silence to the shuttle. The five of them eased back into relieved silence. They still had a few hours ahead of them.

* * *

The first thing Kathryn Janeway did was replicate a mug of vanilla cappuccino. Fragrant, creamy, achingly sweet. Congratulation coffee. How long had it been since she had celebrated with it? There had been so few laurels to rest upon recently. Survival now seemed such a monumental accomplishment.   
  
Alone in her ready room, she cleared her throat and put herself on shipwide audio. /Listen, my allies, my detractors, my rebels, my mutineers. I have news./   
  
"This is the captain speaking. In approximately three hours, a shuttle will dock in our shuttle bay. Returning to us will be Lieutenant Torres, leader of the rescue mission, and Kes, who located the missing officers. They are bringing with them Commander Chakotay, Lieutenant Paris, and Ensign Kim. I have spoken to all of them. They are alive and anxious to return to their ship. We have succeeded, my friends."   
  
"As soon as they are safely boarded, I will order Voyager to leave this system. We will find food and fuel and, eventually, our way home. I will not rest until all of these are ours. As we have so recently succeeded, so we shall succeed again."   
  
There was a short pause. "I realize that we have had our differences in the past months. Groups have splintered, divided by opinions about how the rescue effort was being conducted, who was involved, and what our priorities should be. I suggest that we have weathered this storm, and it is time to put it behind us. We have all felt the strain of these unusual circumstances. But our number shall soon be whole once again. And once again, we can rally around the desire to see our family, friends, and comrades, to leave this quadrant behind and return to Starfleet space."   
  
"We have shared traumatic events together, including the last months. If we cannot agree about what we experienced, then let us at least agree that we survived it. If we are to survive others, we must work together and find, discover, or rebuild the unity necessary to do so. That is our challenge. Those are my orders."   
  
"And the best way to begin is to celebrate the return of those who were lost to us."   
  
"Congratulations to us all. Janeway out."   
  
She sank back into the sofa, rolling her neck and curling her toes deliciously. The chime rang immediately. "Come." She smiled, and patted the space beside her. "Come sit with me, Tuvok."

* * *

She was the only one in the docking bay. Neelix was preparing some surprise in the sickbay, much to the chagrin of the Doctor. Tuvok was on the bridge. Janeway had come to sit in the deserted hangar almost an hour before the shuttle's estimated time of arrival, just waiting. Preparing herself. Wondering. When the small craft finally halted before her, she rose. No fanfare. Quiet, intimate welcome. Closure to all of this. For all of them. The kindest gift possible, putting it all to an end.   
  
The first to disembark was B'Elanna Torres. Garbed for survival, she stalked off the shuttle, Amazonian in intensity and carriage, more warrior than officer. She seemed sated by her success. She had turned a planet inside out and even taken a Vidiian ship down before she had stopped. Not bad. She smiled at Janeway, a flashy, toothy grin. "Permission to board, Captain?"   
  
"Not a minute too soon, Lieutenant. Good work. Congratulations."   
  
Torres nodded briefly and turned to stand beside Janeway, allowing the captain's attention to strain against the darkness behind the shuttle hatch.   
  
Booted feet. Leathery leggings. A soft hide tunic, laces straining against a powerful chest. Muscular, impressive, able. Long black braid falling between wide shoulders. An older, more seasoned grin. He was so beautiful.   
  
/Has this man been here all along?/ She stepped forward, drawn to the figure. "Welcome back, Harry." Unshed tears thickened each syllable she spoke.   
  
His handshake was firm and vigorous. "Thank you. It's good to be back, Captain." He stepped backwards, against the shuttle, as if he were waiting. He flashed a brilliant smile at Torres.   
  
And just then another set of feet appeared in the hatchway. They were covered, not in boots, but in soft animal skin. A slender cane patted out each short, tentative step. Janeway held her breath against the laborious effort of this descent. So terribly gaunt. A fur vest, covering the slender chest. A full beard of dark blond curls. Eyes, once so blue, now an aquamarine shadow, transparent, sunken. But the brows were drawn together with the same familiar blend of self-depreciating, bemused concentration.   
  
"Tom -"   
  
She encircled him with an arm, and he returned the embrace tenderly. She felt the rumble of breath in his chest before she pulled away from him. He straightened and shuffled to Kim's far side, where an unobtrusive arm was extended to steady him should he need support.   
  
Chakotay had already lumbered halfway into view by the time Janeway turned back to the shuttle. She gasped, taken by surprise, at his methodical, crippled gait, at the leg hanging uselessly from the muscled thigh. When her eyes reached his face she stood, stunned, speechless before the white-headed, weathered commander. He saw the expected look in her eye and felt the stab of sadness. /I am still useful to you, Kathryn. Do not judge me too quickly./ But he could not hold back his half-smile for long. At the sight of his dimple, she released the breath she had been holding and tentatively reached out to him. His almond-toned hand took hers, callused fingers rubbing over her slender knuckles.   
  
"Welcome home, Commander."   
  
"Thank you, Captain." From beneath his arm he produced the logbook, and handed it silently to her.   
  
Kes had remained in the shuttle, braced against the waves of emotion she knew would assault her as each man alighted and met Janeway. Even so, the intensity of the experience shocked her. Great joy, bursting from a deeper, more mature satisfaction. And respect, as if from a son for a mother. /Harry./ Fragile tenderness, and loyalty to his captain so desperate it was almost painful. /Tom./ Peace, marred slightly by regret. And beneath it, an unyielding, quiet love. /Chakotay./   
  
Trembling with the aftershocks of the telepathic ordeal, Kes rose to disembark herself. /Home. I'm home. The sickbay, the mess hall, my quarters... The Doctor. Tuvok. Sweet, sweet Neelix./   
  
The echo of her thoughts seemed deafening. She gasped in sudden wonder. Her own emotions, memories, hopes - they were almost as clear as words shouted in an empty room. She was Kes. And the force of her personality was reasserting itself, overpowering the remnant of the other voices, other souls that had indwelled hers for so many months. The spirits had been friendly ones, but now was the proper time of her exorcism; she could let the spirits go without losing the men to whom they belonged.   
  
The first step from the shuttle was Kes's first step back to herself.   
  
They stood there for a moment, frozen, the same question on each face. /Is this it? It's just... over?/   
  
Janeway's voice finally broke the introspective mood. "Gentlemen, shall we go to sickbay?" Her eyes met Chakotay's. /Do you still prefer not to beam over?/   
  
He nodded. "Ready?" Kim and Paris both agreed.   
  
And so Torres led the weary band to the shuttle bay doors. As they opened she stopped, stiffened in surprise, and stepped aside. The hallway was lined with crewmembers.   
  
Painfully slowly, but proudly, Paris stepped into the corridor, followed closely by Kim. Chakotay followed several steps behind. The trip would be a very long one, due to the halting paces of the frail lieutenant and hobbled commander, but it meant everything to the three to take it. As Janeway, an arm around Kes, entered the hall behind Torres, she gasped in grateful astonishment. The crewmates who lined the walls neither cheered nor spoke. They stood at respectful, mute attention, shoulder to shoulder. And the three returning men straightened under the honor of the silent salute.   
  
As they paced themselves behind the dignified procession of the returning officers, Kes leaned against Janeway. Quietly, the captain leaned to speak into the delicate ear. "Congratulations, Kes. Are you all right?"   
  
A nod.   
  
"It doesn't seem... finished, does it?"   
  
A small shake of the blonde head.   
  
"I don't know if it ever will be, completely. We are all here for you, you know that?"   
  
She understood. In her own way she had been injured as surely as Paris or Chakotay. Healing would take time. And pain. As did any restoration.   
  
"I've learned something, Kes. There are no easy solutions, or breathless climaxes, or perfectly happy endings." The captain's voice seemed oddly free and liberated, as if this perplexing truth, spoken behind the line of injured refugees before them, did not disturb her. "There are only degrees, Kes. Variations." /Such as the fact we are two crews, serving together on a voyage to another quadrant over a lifetime away. And all of that's on a good day./ She sighed. Maybe it was the caffeine talking, or the sight of the lost officers, or the fact that the crew had spontaneously gathered in a show of solidarity in welcoming the team home. They completely lined all of the corridors, in fact, from the shuttle bay to the sickbay. Perhaps she simply sensed the first step in the re-creation of their lives.   
  
Janeway continued to whisper to the Ocampa. "This healing process has just begun. But right now, things are better. We've made them that way. You've made them that way. Can that be enough?"   
  
Kes smiled up at the captain, a flash of resilient spirit apparent behind the tired blue eyes. "For now."   
  
THE END


End file.
